Part 13

As the preacher went on in his even, mellow voice, so clear, so calm and tender, setting forth Jesus Christ crucified in the place of sinners, Calista's head sank down on the bench before her, and her full heart overflowed at her. The question was no longer with her, "Can I forgive Aunt Priscilla?" but "What, oh, what can I do for him who has done so much for me; who has paid the debt I owed; who has so loved me all these years that I have never thought of him at all?"

Calista's was not the only bowed head in the assembly. There was a universal silence and hush, and even the careless and wild young men whose presence in the back part of the room had caused Cassius and others some anxiety sat hushed and silent.

The sermon was short—too short for Calista, who would have liked to sit an hour longer. The speaker announced that a prayer meeting would be held in the same place on Wednesday evening, and that after the service, he should be glad to converse with any one who wished for further religious instruction. Then a hymn was sung and the congregation dismissed.

Two or three of the better class of neighbors came up to speak to the minister.

And one grave, formal old man, after saying good-evening, turned to Cassius and reproved him, with some asperity, for letting in Tom Edgar and his companions.

"Why, Mr. Heminway, I thought they were just the people who needed the gospel," answered Cassius, no ways abashed. "I suppose Tom Edgar has a soul to be saved, and that the Lord died to save it, and he ain't any worse than the publicans and sinners that same Lord preached to and sat down to table with."

"That was very different," said the old man. "Tom Edgar is a swearing, fighting, drunken sot,—the pest of the whole neighborhood."

"So much the more need of his having the gospel preached to him," returned Cassius. "Ain't that so, Mr. Alger?"

"Certainly," answered the minister, promptly. "Was that tall, dark young man by the door Tom Edgar? I looked at him several times, and thought him quiet and attentive enough. He sings very finely."

"Well, Mr. Alger, all I have to say is, that if you encourage such sort of people, you will have enough of it. That is the worst of these outside and out of the way meetings. They draw in all the riffraff of the community. * If only the respectable people will come, it would be very well."

* This is no exaggeration.

"Inasmuch as there is joy in the presence of the angels over one sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons who need no repentance, perhaps that may be an effect of outside meetings not altogether displeasing to him who has promised to be in the midst of us," said Mr. Alger, mildly.

Mr. Heminway deigned no answer, but walked away.

"Well, for my part, I was downright glad to see the poor young fellow come in," said Mr. Davis, a small, plain man, who rented one of Miss Priscilla's farms. "Tom Edgar was just one of the nicest little boys that ever lived to begin with, but he hadn't much chance. His father never spoke a kind word to him, and whipped him half to death for every little fault, and his stepmother, who was young and a kind-hearted little thing, thought to make it up by indulging him in everything, and covering up his faults just as far as she could. Tom ain't altogether bad. Don't you remember how he risked his life nursing that poor creature that had the fever up in the woods here?"

"I must try to have a talk with him," said the minister. "Who was that very pretty girl who sat near the desk and seemed so much affected?"

"Oh, that was old Miss Stanfield's niece," said Mr. Heminway, who had rejoined the group.

"That was Miss Calista Stanfield, daughter of Mr. Richard, and granddaughter of old General Stanfield of the mansion house," said Cassius, with a glance of severe rebuke at the first speaker. "She is as fine a young lady as any in the country."

"That she is," rejoined Mr. Davis. "I wish her aunt was only half as much of a lady. I wonder why Miss Druett wasn't down. I kind of thought she would be."

"Oh, she's sick abed with a cold. As to Miss Priscilla, I should think the millennium was coming sure enough if I should see her in a religious meeting. Well, Mr. Alger, I'm sure we have had a profitable time to-night, and I hope it may be the beginning of better things."

Calista went home as it were on wings. She hardly felt the ground on which she trod. The whole world seemed changed to her. Here was the Friend, the Protector, the Helper, the Physician, she needed, all in one. She had been walking in darkness, and here was light; hungry and thirsty, and here was the bread and the water of life; shut in with bolts and bars, and here was the deliverer who had broken the gates of brass and burst the bars of iron asunder, and the guide who would lead and teach her in the way she should go. She had been fighting with what she knew to be sin, and here was one who came before her saying, gently,—

"'Stand still, and see the salvation of the Lord.'

"'I, even I, am he that comforteth you.'"

Calista had, of course, much to learn of the force of temptation, of inbred sin, and of the corruption of her own heart, but of these things she did not think, nor would there have been any wisdom, but quite the contrary, in telling her of them. The traveller who sets out on a long journey knows very well that he will meet many discomforts, trials, and dangers; but he would be a foolish man who should lose the freshness of the morning, and the singing of the birds, and the beauty of flowers and scenery, in pondering over these coming dangers and trials.

Calista went up to Miss Druett's room, and softly opened the door.

"Come in, child, I am not asleep," said Miss Druett. "Come and tell me how you liked the meeting."

"Oh, so much, Miss Druett. How I wish you had been there."

"Then you had a fine sermon?"

"I don't know whether it was fine or not," answered Calista. "I never thought. I knew it was just what I wanted."

Miss Druett drew Calista nearer to her, and fixed her piercing eyes on her face. Then she sighed deeply.

"I see," said she. "You have found him of whom Moses and the Prophets did write."

"You are not sorry, are you, Miss Druett?"

"No, child! Heaven forbid! I found him once, or so I thought; but I lost him again."

"Oh, Miss Druett! Surely he did not forsake you!"

"No: I forsook him. I quarrelled with him because he would not give me the sweets I cried for, and I have never seen him since. I shall never find him again, I fear."

"Perhaps he will find you," said Calista softly. "You know that was what he came for—to seek and to save that which was lost."

Miss Druett had always rather suffered than returned Calista's caresses, but now she drew the girl down to her, and held her in a long, close embrace.

"Get your Bible and read the same chapter the minister read."

Calista obeyed, and Miss Druett listened with evident pleasure and interest.

"To think that any man with a heart could turn that into ridicule, whether he believed it or not!" said she when the chapter was finished. "Now tell me what hymns they sang. Do you know any of them?"

"Yes, ma'am. I know the whole of—"

"'Alas! and did my Saviour bleed,—'

"because we sing it sometimes in church."

"Sing it."

Calista sang the tender, simple old hymn, worth more than whole piles of sentimental stuff which go under the name of hymns in some quarters in these days. Miss Druett listened, and more than one tear stole out from under her closed eyelids.

Miss Priscilla listened as she nodded over her volume of Rousseau, in the parlors below, and made up her mind that she was not going to have that sort of thing going on in the house to please Druey nor any one else.

"Thank you, child. Your voice is like your father's and your grandmother's. There, get me some fresh water, and leave me alone. I dare say I shall have a good night."

CHAPTER FOURTEENTH.

OLD JAEL.

CALISTA rose early as usual, with the feeling that she was entering on a new life. She had lived heretofore for herself—now she must begin to live for him who had live and died, and lived again, for her. She read over again her mother's letter, and saw hosts of new meanings in it. Especially was she struck with these words:

"You must expect to meet with many trials within and without. It may be that you will no sooner resolve to be wholly a Christian than you will find yourself assaulted with more ad sorer temptations than you have ever experienced. This will be partly because you will see things to be wrong which you never thought to be so before—partly, but not wholly. Satan makes his fiercest assaults upon those who are just escaping from his grasp. Be instant in prayer, study your Bible daily, and I would advise you also to study the 'Pilgrim's Progress.' You will find it a treasury of help and instruction."

Some persons might have been discouraged by such a warning—Calista was not so.

"Sure I must fight if I would win," she said to herself. "I always did like that hymn."

And she began to sing it, and then instantly checked herself as she considered that might wake her neighbors.

"I believe I will go out and get the flowers I promised Tessy," said she. "When I am out in the woods, I can sing as much as I please."

She put on her oldest frock and shoes—not that there was so very much to choose between oldest and newest—and, crossing the burying-place, was soon in the shady place where she knew the laurel lingered longest. It was a little hollow on the edge of the woods, and was kept green and damp by three or four springs which united their waters to form a rill—a somewhat uncommon sight in those parts. The place was no favorite with the country people. On one side of the dell was a curious grave-shaped mound, from beneath which rose one of the little springs I have mentioned, which was reddened by oxide of iron. It was believed that a murdered man and his murderer had there been buried in one grave, and that the water, in its color, still bore witness to the deed—and that a kind of venomous snake was found there which lived nowhere else.

Calista had no superstitious fears, and she had never seen any of 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.