Part 10

"Everything was the matter," answered Calista. "I never saw my aunt in such a tantrum. She declared at first that I should not come to school again, but should stay at home and cut carpet-rags. And she actually ordered Miss Druett out of the house."

"I wonder what she thinks she would do without her."

"I don't know, I am sure. She all but cried last night, because she had nobody to play cribbage with her. I tried to learn, to pacify her, but could make nothing of it. However, she was pleased with my trying, and said I was good-natured—the very first time I ever had a word of praise from her—and more than that, she gave me a sixpence."

"Not a whole one?"

"No, it has a hole in it, and I am not sure it is good; but I mean to try at Mammy Bates's, after school. And more than that, she gave me a working-case—the very one that brought down Alexandre on poor Antoinette's devoted head yesterday. See what a pretty, old-fashioned thing it is."

"Very pretty," said Mary, examining the little case. "If I were you, I would have Mr. Parvin sharpen up the knife and scissors. They are very good yet. I wonder what rattles so in the bottom. Does this little velvet tray come out?"

"I don't know; I have not tried. Yes, see, it does lift up, and—well I wonder what will happen next!" said she, as she turned up the case and shook out two English half-crowns. "That is the third sum of money I have found in twenty-four hours. I must be a lucky person, as aunt says. I wonder whether I had not better try my fortune on the pirates' treasure."

"Why, what were the others?"

"Oh, the sixpence, in the first place. That was in the pocket of one of the old coats I was to cut into carpet-rags. Then I was looking in an old drawer, and I found some gold pieces of grandfather's that Aunt Priscilla did not know of. That was a lucky find for me, for it put her in a good humor and gained me permission to finish my term at school. But there, Aunt Priscilla told me not to speak of it," said Calista, vexed at herself. "How careless of me! Please, Mary, don't say anything about it, will you?"

"Of course not," said Mary. "But do you really think Miss Druett will go away? How will you get on without her?"

"I shall not try," said Calista. "She has a plan for herself and me which she told me to talk over with your father."

"I am afraid you will not have the chance to-day," said Mary. "Father has gone up to Princeton, and will not be back till after commencement. Cannot you tell me? Would it be wrong?"

"No, I don't think so. She did not tell me not to tell," said Calista, considering. "Of course, I would not want the affair talked over, at least, not till it is all settled; but so long as I was to tell your father, I don't see any harm in telling you."

Calista then detailed her friend's plan; busying herself, meantime, in polishing the handles of the different implements in the equipage with a bit of chamois leather which she kept to wipe pens on.

Mary listened with great attention to the end. Then she said, gravely:

"Have you thought, Calista, how much this plan involves? If you leave your aunt in that way, will she not be very much displeased?"

"There is no telling whether she will be or not. One thing is certain, I cannot and will not live alone with Aunt Priscilla. I don't think your father would advise it. As to the estate, if that is what you are thinking of, I try to give up all thought of it."

"That is the best way, I suppose. And yet, do you think you shall like living with Miss Druett? Is she not very odd-tempered?"

"She is odd-tempered, but not ill-tempered, if you understand the difference," answered Calista. "She sometimes says very sharp and sarcastic things; but she does not delight to hurt and mortify one, like Aunt Priscilla; and she is very just. You always know where to find her. And she has not one way of Aunt Priscilla's which is particularly exasperating—that of taking up some perfectly harmless word or observation, and twisting and turning it into a great offence. Then, I know all her ways and she knows mine. We are used to each other, and, as old Mrs. Graves said the other day, when her husband died,—

"'We have lived together so long that we have got kind of wonted to each other.'"

"Would not you rather come to us, Calista, if it could be arranged so?" said Mary. "You know my father spoke of it the other day."

"Of course I should, for most reasons," answered Calista. "But then, you see, Mary, I owe a great deal to Miss Druett. She was my only friend for a great many years. I should never have had any education but for her; and now that I look back at it, I can see how she stood between me and Aunt Priscilla's stinginess and tyranny. I verily believe I should never have been anything but a down-trodden drudge of a servant girl but for her. She is very fond of me, in her way, too, and she has no one else. So, if she wants me to go with her, I think I ought to do it."

"But don't you owe any duty to your aunt, Calista?"

"No, Mary, I do not," said Calista, flushing. "I believe, at this moment, my aunt is keeping me out of my inheritance, and enjoying—no, not enjoying, but holding—what is my rightful property. She owes me a great deal more than the bare support she has given me. But there, I don't want to talk or think about that; it does me no good. See how beautifully these handles polish. I believe they are gold, and not gilded, after all."

"I should think so, but I am no judge. I dare say Mr. Parvin can tell you. See, I have rubbed up the velvet and morocco so that it is almost as good as new. You ought to take great care of this case, Calista."

"Yes, indeed; I mean to. I believe I won't take it out to the play-ground, but leave it here in my desk, behind these books. My pocket is worn so thin, it is not very secure. Come, let us go and see what the girls are all about. Oh, by the way, will you go out with me at noon recess? I have some errands for Miss Druett, and I ought to have done one as I came along, but the shop was shut. It was about her trunk that was sent in this morning. The rest can wait till afternoon."

"Oh, Calista," said Mary Burns, meeting her at the school-room door, "may I go to your desk and take out Miss McPherson's 'Deserted Village?' She said you had it, and I want to learn a piece out of it."

"Of course," answered Calista. "Why didn't you take it at once?"

"I didn't want to open your desk without asking you," answered Mary Burns.

"What a terrible thing if you had done so!" said Calista, merrily. "Who knows what dark and dreadful mysteries you might have discovered? However, I will say, Mary, I wish all the girls in school were as particular about such things as you are. It would save lots of trouble."

"Allow me to remind you, Miss Stanfield, that 'lots of trouble' is not a very genteel expression," said Miss Meeks, who was standing near.

"I know it, Miss Meeks, and I stand corrected," answered Calista. "You must allow that the sentiment was correct, though the expression was awkward, as you say."

Miss Meeks glanced sharply at the speaker, as if suspecting ridicule, which she always was suspecting, poor lady. But Calista's smile and glance disarmed her, and she said pleasantly:

"I quite agree with you there. I hope your desk is in order, Calista. You know I must mark you if it is not."

"Indeed it is, Miss Meeks; I have just put it all to rights."

"Then perhaps I had better look at it before you go back to it," said Miss Meeks, smiling, as she turned away.

"Just think! Miss Meeks made a joke," said Calista. "What is going to happen? It is as great a wonder as Aunt Priscilla's making a present. What is the matter, Mary?"

"Nothing," answered Mary Settson, resolutely bruising the head of a little serpent of envy and annoyance which had popped up and hissed in her heart at hearing another praised. "How does your work get on?"

"Nicely. I should have finished the middle last night but for taking a lesson in cribbage from Aunt Priscilla. I think I will knit the border in rosebuds."

"Do you think they wash well? You know you want to do up a bureau cover pretty often."

"Oh, yes; just as well as any other."

Two or three other girls now came up, and the conversation diverged to patterns, stitches, and other similar mysteries. Then Mary Burns brought "The Deserted Village," * and asked Calista's opinion as to what part she should learn.

* If, as I much fear, some of my readers have not read this exquisite poem of Goldsmith's, I advise them to do so without delay.

"Take the character of the pastor," said Mary Settson.

"Begin at the beginning and go straight through," suggested Calista. "It is all worth remembering. I am doing that by the 'Lady of the Lake.' It is very nice to know plenty of pretty verses, especially if one has not many books."

Meantime, some one else had been at Calista's desk. Antoinette Diaments had not expected to go down to Graywich till Saturday morning, but her uncle from Philadelphia had called for her, and Miss McPherson had excused her in consequence. She had seen Calista with the coveted working-case in her hand, and had seen where she put it in her desk. Finding herself alone in the school-room, the temptation to examine the little equipage was too strong to resist. Just as she was about opening the desk, Mary Burns entered, and Antoinette stepped behind an open closet door watched Mary Burns as she examined two or three books, stopped to read a page or two in the "Lady of the Lake," and then, closing the desk, walked away with the book she had come in search of. Then she herself went to the desk and took out the working-case. It was prettier than ever.

"What hurt will it do for me just to take it down to Graywich with me? Nobody will know who took it, and I can slip it into the desk when I come back. It would be serving her right if I kept it altogether."

Antoinette dropped the case into her pocket and went away, first tumbling over Calista's papers and throwing the whole orderly desk into confusion. It was with a malicious smile that she saw Miss Meeks come into the room, open the desk, and frown as she observed the contents.

"I will teach you to interfere and get me into a scrape, Miss Stanfield," said she. "I should like to be by when your aunt asks you what you have done with her working-case."

"Miss Stanfield, what did you mean by telling me that your desk was all in order?" asked Miss Meeks, coming to Calista as soon as the school was opened.

Calista looked surprised, as well she might.

"See here," continued Miss Meeks, opening the desk. "Do you presume to call that order?"

"Why, who in the world has been at my desk!" exclaimed Calista, too much surprised to answer the question, or to modulate her voice to the proper pitch required by the school-room etiquette, which Miss McPherson and her assistants strictly enforced.

"Miss Stanfield, are you aware how loudly you are speaking? You forget yourself."

"I beg your pardon, Miss Meeks," said Calista. "But I was so surprised, I forgot myself, as you say. I assure you, I left it in perfect order, as Mary can bear witness."

"Indeed she did, Miss Meeks," said Mary, who had asked and obtained permission to occupy Antoinette's vacant place.

"Don't you believe me, Miss Meeks?" asked Calista.

"Certainly I do, Calista," answered Miss Meeks, in a more friendly tone. "But it is very singular. Who could have meddled with your things?"

"Mary Burns looked into the desk for a book she wanted," said Calista. "Mary is apt to keep her own things rather at loose ends, but I hardly think she would turn mine upside down in this way, especially as the book she wanted lay directly in front, on the shelf. Don't you remember, Mary? You put it there yourself."

"She might have accidentally displaced the books, if she were in a hurry," said Mary.

Now, it was an undeniable fact that Mary Burns, with all her good qualities—and they were many—was decidedly careless and untidy in her habits; and being so, she was a continual cross and annoyance to Miss Meeks. Consequently, she was no favorite with that lady, and it was with some sharpness that she called:

"Miss Burns!"

Mary rose from her seat and came to Calista's desk.

"Yes, Miss Meeks."

"What did you do to Miss Stanfield's desk this morning?"

"Nothing," said Mary, coloring scarlet as she met Miss Meek's severe glance, and the surprised looks of the other girls.

"What do you mean by saying, 'nothing'? Did you not open the desk and take something out of it?"

Mary was a shy girl and easily disconcerted; and she stammered from sheer nervousness as she answered—

"Yes, ma'am; I took out a book that Calista—that Miss McPherson—" and here she stopped from absolute inability to articulate another word.

"You mean that you took out the book of Miss McPherson's which she told you to ask me for," said Calista's clear, reassuring voice. "Did you notice then whether the desk was in order or not?"

"It was, I know," answered Mary, recovering herself a little.

"Allow me to manage this matter in my own way, and do not take the words out of my mouth, Miss Stanfield," said Miss Meeks, sharply—jealous for her own dignity, as usual. "Did you or did you not meddle with the other contents of Miss Stanfield's desk, Miss Burns?"

"I didn't meddle with anything; only, I took a book and read a little," said Mary. "The book I wanted was Miss McPherson's 'Goldsmith.' Calista had it, and I asked her if I might go to her desk and get it; you heard me."

"I am aware of that. What then?"

"Then I did go and get it. It lay on the shelf. I did not touch anything else, only the 'Lady of the Lake.' I took that up and read in it a little and put it back. The desk was all in order then, I am sure."

"Well, it is very odd, that is all I can say; and a great shame," said Calista, "to go and cheat me out of a credit-mark for order, when I get so few. I don't mean you, Mary."

"Allow me to ask whom you do suspect, Miss Stanfield? You say that you put the desk in order; Miss Settson says same. It is found in great disorder, and nobody is known to have been near it but Miss Burns."

"I don't know anything about it, Miss Meeks. But I don't believe Mary did it. If she had, she would say so—she would not tell a lie about it."

Now, it had unfortunately happened that Mary's extreme timidity had, once on a time, betrayed her into evasion, if not absolute falsehood; and this Miss Meeks remembered, as, unluckily, she always did remember anything which told against the character of a person she disliked.

"I wish I were as sure of that as you are, Miss Stanfield. Please look over your desk and tell me whether you miss anything."

Calista looked through her possessions, and turned, first red, then pale, as she pointed out a particular compartment in the desk to Mary.

"Well, what is it?" said Miss Meeks, sharply. "I see that something is wrong. What do you miss?"

"A little old-fashioned working-case my aunt gave me. It is the same one that Antoinette wanted to borrow yesterday. Miss Priscilla gave it to me this morning, and I brought it into town to have the knife and scissors sharpened; and because my pocket was not very strong, I put it away in my desk while I went out to the play-ground. I am quite sure Mary did not touch it."

"Did you see any one in the school-room when you were here?" asked Miss Meeks.

"No, ma'am—yes, ma'am," stammered Mary. "That is, I saw Antoinette Diaments come out of the room a few minutes after I did."

Miss Meeks's face grew rigid with displeasure.

"Your attempt to throw suspicion on a schoolmate will hardly save you, Miss Burns. Miss Diaments left for Graywich at eight this morning."

"I can't help that—I know I saw her," said Mary Burns, obstinately; her own "Scotch" getting up. "I could not be mistaken. She had on her bonnet and her gray riding-dress."

"At what hour did you come to school?" asked Miss Meeks, turning to Calista.

"I don't know exactly, Miss Meeks. It wanted a quarter to nine when I finished putting my desk in order. I looked at the clock to see how much time I had before school."

"You can go to your seat, Miss Burns," said Miss Meeks, severely. "And you will please remain there till the close of school. Miss McPherson is unfortunately laid up with one of her severe headaches; but I shall lay the matter before her as soon as she is able to attend to it, and perhaps some light may be thrown upon other events which have occurred lately."

"Miss Meeks," said Calista, warmly, "you may suspect Mary, if you please; but I shall never think that she either disarranged my desk or took anything that did not belong to her—never!"

"Miss Stanfield, you forget yourself. Go to your seat, as I tell you, Miss Burns. This matter shall be sifted to the bottom."

Mary obeyed with burning cheeks and a beating heart, and Miss Meeks went on with the business of the school. At recess all the girls gathered round Mary Settson and Calista.

"Have you really lost your needle-case, Calista? Do you believe Mary Burns got it?"

"No, I don't," answered Calista, shortly.

"But it could not go without hands, and who else could have touched it?" argued one of the girls.

"I don't know who did, but I know who didn't," answered Calista. "I wish the old needle-case had been in the bottom of the creek before I ever found it," she said to Mary, when they were alone. "It has made nothing but trouble so far. I no more believe Mary took it than I believe Miss Meeks did herself."

"But, you must admit, it had an odd look, Calista," said Mary. "I mean her stammering so, and her trying to throw the blame upon Antoinette, who must have been ten miles away."

"As to her stammering, she always does that," answered Calista. "As to her seeing Antoinette, I don't know exactly what to think; but I believe the truth will come out in time."

"Well, I must say you take the loss of your pretty case very philosophically—more so than I should," said Mary.

"I am not philosophical at all, I am very much vexed," returned Calista; "but I don't want to accuse any one falsely, and I don't see why Mary should say she saw Antoinette when she did not. I am very sorry Miss McPherson is sick; she would be at the bottom of the matter in no time. There is the recess bell. Where is Tessy to-day?"

"I don't know. Emma, where is Tessy?"

"Oh, she is quite laid up again with her ankle. She cannot walk at all. She thinks it is the weather, but I don't," added the little girl, with an air of wisdom. "I think it was going down to the milliner's after Antoinette's veil, which she forgot. And do you know, girls, the milliner would not let Tessy have it without pay, and Tessy was just silly enough to pay for it herself, after all."

"Well, she is a goose. Why did she do that?"

"Oh, she thought Antoinette would be so disappointed. Miss Jessy is as vexed as can be, and says Tessy's ankle will never be well unless she is more careful, and that she ought to go to a hospital, where she would be made to keep still."

"It would be more to the purpose to send Antoinette, I think," said Calista.

"It wouldn't make any difference," replied Emma. "If it was not Antoinette, it would be some one else. Tessy's great trouble is that she can never say 'no.'"

"I think you are right, little one," said Calista. "If you see Tessy, tell her I am coming up to see her after school—that is, if Miss Meeks will let me."

For it was a rule of the establishment that there should be no room-visiting between day scholars and boarders without express permission.

In the afternoon, as Miss Meeks had her hands full with the sole care of the great school-room (Miss Jessy being occupied with the care of her aunt), she sent Calista again to take charge of the little girls and their sewing, giving her permission to choose any one she pleased to help her. Calista chose Mary Settson, of course, and they had a pleasant afternoon. As she observed Mary's manner with the children, she could not but own that Miss Meeks was right, sad that Mary was not cut out for a teacher. Mary had a way with her that was not encouraging. She set a copy or gave instructions in knitting with a tone and manner which seemed to say,—

"Well, there it is, but I have not the least idea that you will do it right. I have no doubt you will blot the writing and pucker the seam, and drop half the stitches at least."

Calista, on the contrary, was always certain things would be done well, or, if they did not succeed the first time, that they would infallibly do so with a little more practice. The children felt the difference, and so did Mary herself, and it cost her a hard fight with her besetting enemy. But those who were for her were more than those who were against her, and she was able to say to Miss Meeks honestly, and without a quaver in her voice—

"Calista manages beautifully, Miss Meeks. I think she would make an excellent teacher in our Sunday-school, if we get one up."

"I dare say," replied Miss Meeks. "Well, Miss Stanfield and Miss Settson, I am much obliged to you."

"Please, Miss Meeks, may I go up and see Tessy?" asked Calista.

"You may go, but do not stay long. I think she is a little disposed to be feverish."

"Will you go, Mary?"

"I think not. I have a bit of work to finish. I will be ready to go out with you when you come down."

Calista found Tessy bolstered up on her little bed, with her French dictionary and a volume of fairy tales which belonged to Miss Jessy, and was only lent as a special favor. She looked pale and suffering, but welcomed her visitor cheerfully.

"And what is going on down stairs?" asked Tessy, presently. "I thought I heard one of the girls say something about Mary Burns being in trouble. The old story of mislaying her things, I suppose?"

"Well, yes, partly; it all grows out of that," answered Calista, determined not to be the first to tell of what she believed to be Mary Burns's undeserved disgrace. "I don't think it would have come to much if Miss McPherson had been about; but you know people make mountains out of mole-hills sometimes."

"Yes, and the mountain sometimes brings forth a ridiculous mouse."

"I suspect the mouse in this case will be ridiculous enough," said Calista. "But, Tessy, what made your ankle so much worse all at once? I thought it was almost well."

"It was a great deal better," answered Tessy, blushing. "I suppose I walked too much and too fast."

"That is to say, you half killed yourself, as usual, running to wait on Antoinette," said Calista.

"Well, yes, I suppose that was it. You see she forgot her veil and I had to go after it."

"Why did you have to? Why could not she call for it as she went along?"

"I don't know. I suppose she did not think of it."

"Well, I know," said Calista, "or at least I guess. Tell me now, honestly, did you not pay for it?"

Tessy blushed scarlet, and cast an imploring glance at Calista.

"Please don't tell, Calista; it will only get her into a scrape."

"I shall not tell, because it would get you into a scrape, you little goose. But I will tell you this, Tessy: if you ever want to be good for anything in this world—or any other, I might say—you must learn to say 'No,' and say it good and strong; in capital letters, with a string of exclamation points after it."

"I think I could always say no if it was about anything right or wrong," said Tessy, thoughtfully.

"Are you sure? Was there nothing wrong about this?"

"Why, no. Was there?"

"Yes, I think so. In the first place, you had no right to injure your ankle, especially as Dr. Elsmore told you that a little imprudence might lame you for life. In the second place, you know that Miss McPherson has forbidden Antoinette to borrow anything whatever, don't you?"

"Yes."

"And if it is wrong for her to borrow, it is clearly wrong for any one to lend to her."