Part 11

"But it wasn't lending, exactly. Antoinette did not ask me to pay for the veil, though, to be sure, she must have known I could not get it without paying, because Mrs. McPherson has forbidden any one to trust the school-girls. Yes, I see, Calista, you are right, and I am a poor, weak, silly fool, and always shall be."

"Now you are going just as far the other way," said Calista. "I never said a word about your being a silly fool. All I say is that you must learn to say 'NO!' and say it good and strong."

"It seems so ill-natured," pleaded poor Tessy.

"Pray, whose good opinion do you care the most for, Antoinette's or Miss McPherson's? But there, I did not come to give you a dose of instructive moral sentiments. How does your work get on?"

"Oh, nicely; it is almost done, and Miss Jessy praises it up to the skies. Don't you want to see it? It is in that drawer, if you don't mind getting it out."

"How nice your drawers look!" said Calista.

"Yes, I am really learning to keep things straight, thanks to Miss Jessy. That is it. Spread it out."

Calista admired to Tessy's heart's content the lace-like netted curtains, with what we should now call a guipure pattern around the edge.

"They are perfectly lovely. Do you think they will sell?"

"Oh, yes; they are bespoken already by a friend of Miss McPherson's from Philadelphia—that Scotch lady who was here the first of the week."

"How glad I am! Mine is done, too, all but the border. I mean to knit a double row of rosebuds. There, I must not stay another minute, or Miss Meeks will be after me. Oh, by the by, Tessy, what time did Antoinette go away this morning?"

"Do you mean the first time or the last?"

"Why, did she go away twice?" asked Calista.

"Yes. She set out at eight o'clock, but something happened to the horse's foot, and uncle had to go to the blacksmith's; so Antoinette came back and waited till he was ready. She left the room here just as the quarter to nine bell was ringing, but she did not go away directly, I know. I heard her go into the school-room; I always know the peculiar squeak of her boots. Why?"

"Only that one of the girls thought she saw her in the school-room after the first bell rung, and Miss Meeks said it must be a mistake, because Antoinette went away at eight," said Calista, rejoicing in the power Tessy had given her of so far clearing Mary. "Good-bye, dear; I shall bring you some flowers Monday. I know where I can find some late laurel, and perhaps a moccasin-flower or two."

"Oh, thank you! I do love laurel, and I have not been able to get out to gather any this year."

Calista went straight to Miss Meeks's room, but she had gone out. Miss Jessy was sitting with Miss McPherson, who had just fallen asleep, and must not be disturbed on any account.

"I don't see but I must let the thing rest till Monday," said Calista to Mary, after she had told her Tessy's story.

"You might call and see Mary Burns herself," suggested Mary Settson. "But perhaps it would be as well to leave the whole matter till Monday, as you say. Mary needs a lesson."

"She may need a lesson, but I don't care to be the one to give it to her," answered Calista, with some warmth; "and I don't think I should thank any one for giving such a lesson to me. Would you?"

"Perhaps not," answered Mary; "and yet it might very good to me, for all that."

"Well, I don't feel any special mission for doing people good by keeping them in uncomfortable suspense when there is no need for it," returned Calista. "I would rather do as I would be done by. Come, let us stop and see Mary."

They were disappointed again. Mary had gone to her aunt's directly after school, and would probably stay all night, as her aunt was more than usually unwell.

"I can't go all the way up to Mrs. Rolfe's, that is certain," said Calista; "and I don't like to leave a message either. Well, let it go. Perhaps you will see her or Miss Meeks to-morrow. If you do, please tell them what Tessy says. Come, I must do Miss Druett's errands."

The errands were accomplished, and then Calista did one for herself. With a part of her dollar she bought a pound of sperm-candles—an article much cheaper and better than the parafine-candles which have taken their place.

"What on earth did you do that for?" asked Mary, as they turned into the street.

Calista laughed, and then became suddenly grave as she said—"I suppose you cannot realize what it is never to be allowed a light when you go to bed, except perhaps a mite of tallow-candle in winter."

"You don't mean to say you never have a light in your own room!"

"Neither light nor fire, except as I told you, in the dead of winter."

"But Miss Druett—"

"Miss Druett helps me all she can; but Aunt Priscilla keeps the keys. Now and then Chloe makes candles, and then she contrives to save one out for me. Good-bye, Mary. Do say a kind word to Mary Burns, if you get a chance. I am just as sure of her innocence as I am of yours or my own."

Calista had just reached the place where the river road turned off, when the rattle of wheels made her look round, and she saw Cassius driving up in his neat, serviceable little Jersey wagon. He stopped as he saw Calista.

"Evening, Missy," said he, taking off his hat as usual; "I heard you was on the road, and so I drove fast to catch up with you. Won't Missy have a ride?"

Calista gladly accepted the offer, and Cassius drove on leisurely, entertaining his companion with various little bits of news.

"Did Missy hear that we are to have preaching at the old meeting-house every Sunday evening now?"

"No," said Calista, very much interested. "I think that will be very nice. Who is to preach?"

"I disremember his name, though I have seen him often when we was both young," answered Cassius. "He is quite an old gentleman now, and has come to end his days with his niece over here at the Mills. So when he heard there was no preaching anywhere rounds here, he said he would see what he could do, and he got leave to use the old meeting-house. I am going round to-morrow to tell all the neighbors. Won't you try to come, Missy? You know what that pretty hymn says—

"'Tis easier work, if we begin To serve the Lord betimes.'"

"I will certainly try to come," said Calista. "It is very good in you to take so much pains about the matter."

"It ain't much I can do to serve the Lord these times; but I think it a great privilege to be allowed to do the leastest thing for one who has done so much for me," said the old man. "And, bless the Lord, he don't look at how much we do, but how we do it. When that poor woman in the Scripture put in her two mites into the treasury, the good Lord said she had put in more than they all."

"You love him, don't you, Cassius?"

"Yes, bless his name, Missy, I do."

"Well, I wish I did."

"So do I, Missy, for I am sure he loves you. Why don't you?"

"Well, I hardly know, Cassius. I suppose I don't think enough about it. I have not had much chance, you know."

"Ah, Missy, don't say that. You have been to church and heard the minister preach and read about him, and you've heard the Bible read in school. I'm afraid it is as you say, and you don't think enough about it."

"Perhaps so."

"You will think, won't you, Missy?"

"Yes, Cassius, I will," answered Calista, frankly. "And I will go to the meeting if aunt will let me. Thank you ever so much for bringing me home. Good-night."

Calista peeped into the sitting-room. She had come to look on the Philadelphia scheme as quite settled and certain, and she felt a sudden sinking at her heart as she saw Miss Druett and Aunt Priscilla sitting together just as usual. Miss Stanfield was the first to speak.

"Whose wagon was that I heard? Have you taken to hiring carriages to bring you home?"

"Not quite, yet," answered Calista. "Cassius overtook me, and brought me home in his wagon."

"Well, that is well enough. If you were a little sharper, you might often get a ride and save your shoes. But catch you saving anything!"

"Let the child alone, Priscilla," said Miss Druett. "Calista, did you get the things as I told you?"

"Yes, ma'am, they are all here. Shall I leave them in your room?"

"If you please. I am just going up."

"So you have made it up with Aunt Priscilla," said Calista, as they were going up stairs together.

Miss Druett nodded.

"She came to my room, begged my pardon for what she had said, and asked me to stay, and I have said I would for the present."

"And so all our fine plan falls to the ground," said Calista, sadly.

"For the present, as I said; but it may yet come to pass. Meantime, here is something to console you."

She put a bunch of keys into Calista's hand as she spoke.

Calista looked at them in wonder.

"What are these?" she asked.

"Keys," said Miss Druett, smiling. "Look into your room, and perhaps you will find something they will fit."

With a beating heart Calista, opened the door. There in a row at the side stood the three brown leather trunks, marked on the end "Calista Folsom."

CHAPTER TWELFTH.

THE TRUNKS.

"I KNOW it was your doing, Miss Druett. How did you manage it?"

"Why, I thought the present was a good time for some diplomacy, so I made the restoration of the trunks, and several other things, conditions of my remaining. You are my girl now, Calista, and must mind me. I mean to be very harsh and tyrannical, so you must make up your mind to it. I shall take out all my injuries of every sort on you."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I made it one condition of my staying another day, that you were to be delivered over to my care altogether, Priscilla furnishing your board as long as you stay here, and I being at all the other expenses of your maintenance and education. So mind you don't tear your dresses and spoil your shoes running after flowers and squirrels, or I don't know what will happen."

"It is too much, Miss Druett; more than you ought to do."

"No, I can afford it well enough; as things are, I have not much use for money."

"But you might live so much more pleasantly somewhere else."

"More pleasantly, perhaps, but pleasure is not all, my little girl. Here is my place, and here I must remain for the present. General Stanfield was my mother's friend and helper in her sorest hour of need, and I will stay and watch over his daughter as long as I can do her any good."

"I believe you are the only person who has any influence with her," remarked Calista.

"I think so too, and I don't know how long that influence will last; but while it does, I am bound to use it."

"But about the trunks?" said Calista.

"Well, they are another condition. Of course, I cannot say in what state you may find their contents, but they have never been touched since they were piled up in that room."

"I wonder Aunt Priscilla has not ransacked them long ago."

"She never had the chance," replied Miss Druett. "I mislaid the keys, and did not find them for a long time, and when I did, I thought it just as well not to mention the fact. But now, Calista, I have one or two conditions to impose as you, if this bargain of ours is to stand. The first is, that you shall not go out, visit, or make any new acquaintances, without consulting me."

"I am sure I agree to that," said Calista; "I am only too thankful to have some one who really cares what I do."

"The second is, that you shall never speak disrespectfully to, or of, Priscilla; it is not good for you or her."

"I agree to that, too," said Calista. "I never speak of her at all, if I can help it; never to any one but Mr. Settson or Mary, who know all about her. I never fancied making family matters common property—'setting all your broken dishes out on the fence,' as Chloe says."

"That is the true ladylike spirit," said Miss Druett. "You must come to me whenever you want money, clothes, or books, and you must let me be the judge as to your need of them. When I have time to look over and calculate my resources, I shall try to make you a regular allowance of pocket-money, though it will have to be very small. Take care of your keys; keep the trunks always locked, and the keys in your pocket or under your pillow. Now get yourself ready for supper, and mind you don't say anything to exasperate Priscilla."

Calista obeyed. It required some firmness on her part to resist the temptation at once to open the trunks, which she could hardly believe to be really within her reach. She made herself as neat as she could, taking particular pains with her hair, which Miss Druett said was like her father's. As she entered the sitting-room, Miss Druett sighed, and even Miss Priscilla seemed struck with her appearance.

"Just like her father," said she, half to herself; "just like him, mind and body; and would make the money fly just so, if she could get it; but that won't be in my time. No, no."

Calista thought of her promise just in time to suppress a sharp retort. She took her place at the table, which was rather better furnished than ordinary, and helped herself to bread and butter without receiving the usual rebuke. Indeed, Miss Priscilla seemed rather anxious to conciliate her niece, and actually asked her two or three civil questions.

"Well, really, she got through a meal without snapping at me once," said Calista to herself; "but I suppose it is too good to last."

"Where is the working-case I gave you this morning?" asked Aunt Priscilla, as Calista rose to leave the room after supper. "I want to see it."

"I took it to town to have the knife and scissors put in order so that I could use them, and I did not bring it home," answered Calista, telling the truth, but not quite the whole truth.

"Humph! However, it doesn't matter to me; only I should like to know how you expected to pay for it."

"Why, aunt, you know you gave me a whole sixpence," answered Calista.

"More fool I!" answered Miss Priscilla, gruffly.

"And Miss Druett also gave me a little money—so I was quite rich."

"More fool she!" again ejaculated Miss Priscilla. "However, it is no concern of mine."

Miss Priscilla composed herself for her usual nap.

And Calista, dismissed by a glance from Miss Druett, stole away to examine her treasures.

The keys and locks were alike rusty, but a little grease from her treasured bit of tallow-candle soon removed that trouble; and it was with a feeling of awful delight that Calista opened the long-shut lids, and inhaled the odor of the spices, camphor, and tobacco, with which Mrs. Tom Folsom and Miss Malvina had embalmed their contents so long ago. It almost seemed to her as if she were about to have an interview with her mother.

The first trunk she opened contained only linen—real linen, and of good quality—for, at the time poor Calista Folsom's wedding outfit was provided, cotton was very little worn, except in the shape of chintz. Calista found her own baby-clothes, pinned up in a separate bundle, and shed some tears over the dainty sewing, the beautiful satin stitch, and lace-like cut work with which they were adorned. The next trunk contained dresses and other things of that nature, and Calista opened her eyes wide at the three or four rich silks, the soft gray Canton crape, and the beautiful, unapproachable India camel's hair cloth—such as I remember seeing upon old ladies when I was young. Then there were two er three white dresses, worked in deep patterns, with floss and amazing lace stitches; a large white Canton crape shawl, and another which Calista was sure was an Indian cashmere, of a soft, dusky, almost smoky, red—such as no Western dyer ever attained or ever will—with wide borders at the ends and narrow ones at the sides.

"I wonder whether I shall ever wear any of these things?" said Calista to herself, as she carefully restored them to their neat folds and wrappings. "But, oh, how I wish I could find something which tells more about herself!—some letters or journals. Perhaps they are in the other trunks."

So it proved. The contents of the last trunk were more valuable than any of the others. It contained a gold watch and chain much like that one which Calista had discovered is her grandfather's desk; a box containing an expensive set of ornaments and some beautiful lace—poor Richard's wedding present to his bride; a number of books, among them a Bible and Psalm-book, bound alike and marked with her mother's name. In the inside of the Bible was written, in a legible but unsteady hand:

"I leave this Book—which was given me by my own dear mother, on her death-bed—to my precious and only child, Calista Stanfield. May it be a lamp to her feet and a light to her path, which shall grow brighter and brighter unto the perfect day!"

On another leaf, and evidently by the same hand, was inscribed Richard Crashaw's inscription in a prayer-book:

"It is an armory of light; Let constant use but keep it bright, You'll find it yields, To holy hands and humble hearts, More swords and shields Than sin hath snares, or hell hath darts. Only be sure The hands be pure That hold these weapons; and the eyes, Those of turtles, chaste and true, Wakeful and wise."

The trunk also contained a work-box and writing-desk each covered with red morocco, and having the key tied to the handle. Calista was just going to lift out the writing-desk, when some one knocked and opened the door. It was Miss Druett.

"Just as I expected," said she. "Do you know what time it is?"

"No, ma'am. Is it late?"

"Only half-past ten—which is rather late for you. Put up your things and lock the boxes for to-night, or you will have Priscilla in here. Where did you get your candle?"

"I bought it with some of the money you gave me. Was that wrong? It does seem so hard not to have a light for anything."

"Not wrong at all. I should have thought of it; but somehow it is only within a few weeks that I have found out you are not a baby. Here, let me help you. In what condition did you find the things?"

"They seem to be all right. I don't think the boldest moth would have ventured into the trunks, they are so filled with tobacco and camphor. I believe I will keep out mother's Bible and Psalm-book. I know she would want me to use them."

"Very well. And, Calista, that reminds me of another thing I wanted to say. Don't read a book in this house—I mean, not a book you find in the house—without asking me. I don't want your young blood poisoned as mine was."

"You don't mean that I shall not read mother's books!" said Calista, a little dismayed.

"Oh, no! I am not afraid of any books your mother was likely to have. There, good-night! And don't burn the house down."

Calista fastened her door and then sat down to look over her treasures. The Bible had evidently been long and carefully used, and was marked from end to end with pencil marks, notes, and references. As Calista turned over the leaves, it seemed to her as if her mother was talking with her, so many of the passages seemed marked with special reference to herself. But the most precious of all was to come. Pinned to the last leaf of the book was a letter in her mother's handwriting, addressed—

"To my dear and precious daughter, Calista Stanfield. To be given her as soon as she shall be able to read and understand it."

Calista carefully unpinned the letter and looked at it before she broke the seal, and a feeling of anger rose in her heart at the thought that so precious a legacy should have been kept from her hands so long. But this emotion passed away as she read the letter—just such a letter as a loving, tender, Christian mother might be expected to write to a daughter under such circumstances. It began with a slight sketch of the writer's own life, and from it Calista first learned that her maternal grandfather had been a somewhat noted New England minister.

"I wonder whether I have any relations living," thought Calista. "I must try to find out some time."

The letter proceeded to give some judicious counsel as to the guidance of her future life.

"I cannot but feel that I have been hardly treated by your father's family," the writer went on to say. "Certainly, I never intended to injure them in any way. Nevertheless, for your father's sake, should you be brought in contact with your grandfather or aunt, I beg you will try to make friends with them."

The writer concluded with a most earnest appeal to Calista at once to give her whole heart to her heavenly Father, to put herself body and soul in his hands, and strive to follow the steps of her Saviour into all holiness and godly living, that she might not fail to meet her friends at the right hand of God in the great day of account.

Calista shed many tears over this letter, as was only natural.

"Oh, I will—I will!" she said to herself. "I will try to be a Christian, like my dear mother. I will resolve this minute to serve God, and to put myself into his hands."

So she did, poor lonely child, and that in all sincerity; but she was to find out that the gate was straiter and the way narrower than she had any idea of. The "lion in the way" does not usually lie on the threshold, but just a little way inside.

Calista went to bed thinking that she should not sleep at all; but youth and health do not often lie awake long. She was asleep almost before her head touched the pillow, and did not awake till the robin which lived in the great tree opposite her window began his usual musical morning call.

"It can't be more than four o'clock," said she to herself. "You stupid robin, what did you wake me so early for? Can't you get up yourself without making such a fuss about it? I suppose I had better go to bed again."

She lay down, accordingly, and tried to go to sleep for full ten minutes. Then she decided that there was no use is trying any longer, and she might as well get up and finish looking over the things. She was soon dressed and seated on the ground before her treasures. She opened the work-box first: it contained the usual working implements, and one thing not often seen in these days—a thread-case, stitched into long, numbered compartments, into each of which was drawn a skein of thread or silk, cut at one end.

Calista opened a velvet case with some trouble, and found, as she expected, a miniature picture of her father. Fastened into the lid of the case was a sketch, in water colors, of a sweet, fair, somewhat prim and precise-looking female face, evidently done by no professional hand. It afforded a great contrast, in its thin tints and stiff outlines, to the beautifully painted picture on the other side; but there about it that nameless something which showed it was a likeness. The clear, well-opened, but somewhat hollow blue eyes, with their level, even brows, looked at Calista with love; and the firm, but not stern, mouth seemed as if it might speak. A shadowy remembrance came over Calista of her mother sitting before a glass and painting, while she herself sat on the floor and scribbled with a lead pencil. She kissed the picture again and again.

"She painted it for me—I am sure she painted it for me. My precious mother!"

But the writing-desk was the most interesting and important of all. It was of pretty good size, and was packed full of papers arranged in neat order. There were letters, which had evidently been received from young friends, full of news and gossip about companions and work and books, and also with more serious matters—news of a schoolmate's conversion, requests for prayers, and the like. There were letters from her father, written after he left her mother to go to the wars; manly and tender, and thoroughly devout and Christian in their tone. The last one expressed great regret at the writer's estrangement from his father.

"I have written to him, and I hope you will do the same. I am sure if he were only to see you, all would be right between you."

This letter was endorsed,—

"The last letter I ever had from my dearest husband. God's will be done!"