Part 5

"The boy was permitted to run wild, so far as any government was concerned. He associated with all sorts of people, and was given an almost unlimited command of money. This was particularly the case after his mother died, which she did, unfortunately, when your father was only ten years old. Under such circumstances, it is a wonder that your father grew up no worse than he did. I do not mean to say that he was addicted to low vice or dissipation, for such was never the case, but he was extravagant and self-indulgent, and totally without any guiding principle, religious or otherwise. Your grandfather had unfortunately taken up with those notions of the French philosophers which Mr. Jefferson had made fashionable."

Mr. Settson then gave an account of her father's college life, his marriage, and the displeasure of her grandfather, and added: "A few days about ten, I think—before his death, as I was riding out of town to keep an appointment, I met General Stanfield, who had been away for two or three weeks. He directed Cassius, who was with him as usual, to go on, while he turned his horse and rode by my side for some distance, talking on various subjects. Just as we were about to part, he said:

"'Settson, I have made a new will.'

"'Indeed!' said I.

"'Yes,' said he. 'I have thought the matter over, and I believe I have been wrong, so I have made a new will, giving the homestead and all in Cohansey to Dick and his children, if he has any, with a due allowance to his wife. I shall bring the papers in to you in a few days, and we will consult on the best way of obtaining intelligence.'

"If I had had any suspicion of what was coming, I should have asked for more particulars; but your grandfather's horse was very restive, and I was in a hurry to keep my appointment. Just as your grandfather turned back to go home, he said, 'I have made you and Fabian executors and guardians.'

"I was out of town for several days," continued Mr. Settson, "and the very day after my return, I heard of your grandfather's death. Of course I caused a proper search to be made for the will, but it was not to be found. Cassius, whom I questioned closely, knew nothing of the matter, not even when or where the will should have been made. His master had been in New York, Philadelphia, and several other places, but he had never known of his visiting a lawyer's office. And though I was at a good deal of trouble and expense, I could never find out anything about the matter."

Calista sat silent a moment; then she asked, in a tone which was singularly calm and business-like,—

"In what year was this, Mr. Settson?"

"In 1817."

"But did not grandfather know that his son was dead and had left a child?"

"No, he knew nothing of either circumstance. Your parents never wrote to him, or he never received their letters. Shortly after your mother's death, Priscilla informed me, through Miss Druett, that she had learned that Richard had left a daughter who was now an orphan, and that as soon as the spring opened, she intended to send for the child and give it a home, though, as she was careful to state, she was under no legal obligation to do so."

"Then if the last will could be found, would the old place and the rest be mine?"

"Without doubt; but I fear it never will be found."

"Mr. Settson," said Calista, with flashing eyes and pale lips, "do you suppose Aunt Priscilla could have destroyed that last will?"

Mr. Settson was so startled by the question that it took a very large pinch of snuff to restore his equanimity.

"My dear Calista, you should think twice before even hinting at an accusation of such a crime against your aunt. No, I do not believe her capable of such an action—at least at that time. At present I do not hesitate to say that I should hardly be surprised. I believe the love of money has grown to be a disease with her, as it does with most people who indulge in it. Never let it get hold of you, my dear child."

"There seems no great danger of my having any money to love," said Calista, rather bitterly.

"Oh, but you may love money without having it," said Mr. Settson. "I suppose as many poor people love money as rich people—perhaps more in proportion."

"I am taking up a great deal of your time," said Calista, becoming suddenly aware of the fact, and rising as the church clock struck.

"You are welcome to it, my child. Sit down again for a moment; I have something more to say to you."

Calista sat down, wondering what was coming.

"My dear Calista, I have always been interested in you," began Mr. Settson, "for the sake of your grandfather, who was my father's friend and mine, as well as for your own sake, and also because I consider myself as your guardian by your grandfather's appointment. When Miss Druett brought you home, I applied to Miss Priscilla Stanfield for permission to take you and bring you up as my own, but this she refused, and for some reason, which I do not understand, has always refused. I have, however, kept my eye upon you. Thus I prevailed upon your aunt to send you to school—"

"I thought that was Miss Druett's doing," interrupted Calista, surprised.

"It was, in a great degree; that is, I should never have carried my point but for her. What I wish to say is, that you may always come to me for any advice or help you need. Consider me as standing to you in the place of a father."

"Thank you, sir," said Calista, gratefully; "I am sure you are very good. It is a comfort to think I have even one friend to look to."

"'You have one Friend far more powerful than I am, my child, if you will only seek him. Try to cultivate a sense of personal religion. Do you do so?"

"No, Mr. Settson," answered Calista, with the perfect frankness which was one of her best traits. "I don't even know exactly what you mean by personal religion."

"I mean personal loyalty to a personal God and Saviour," said Mr. Settson, emphatically. "You can understand that."

"Yes, sir; but I am afraid I don't feel it. Mr. Settson, will you just tell me one thing?"

"If I can, certainly."

"Do you really and truly, I don't say believe, but feel and realize it, that God is your own Friend and Father, and loves you so that he really cares for what you do and what happens to you?"

"I most certainly do!" answered the old lawyer, with an earnestness equal to her own. "I don't say that I am able to realize the fact at all times alike, but I know and believe it as firmly as I do in my own existence. Calista, I have had a reasonably prosperous and happy life, but I solemnly declare that, only for my children, if I believed this life was all, and that there was no God, or that God did not love and care for me, I would give up life as a bad business, and be rid of the trouble."

"But would that be right?" asked Calista.

"Perhaps not; but I fear the idea of right and wrong would not be very strong with me under such circumstances as I have supposed."

"What about Mr. Simpson's mortgage?" asked Calista, as she rose to go.

"Oh! Tell Miss Priscilla that the man has been sick and unfortunate, but he is sure to pay in the end, and I think she had better give him a little more time. The investment is safe enough."

"Please write it," said Calista. "She will only rave at me."

"Perhaps it would be better." Mr. Settson wrote his note.

Calista put it in her pocket and walked away, with her head fuller of thoughts than it had ever been before. She was so absent in school, and made so many mistakes that Miss Jessy observed to Miss Meeks that Calista's head was far too full of her fancy work, and Miss Meeks returned with a sarcastic smile, that she had never expected anything else.

CHAPTER SIXTH.

THE SECRET DRAWER.

FOR several days Calista went about like one in a dream. She was so absent that Miss Druett wondered what had come over the child; and she made so many blunders in school that she brought down on her head a sharp reprimand from Miss Meeks.

"It is just what I predicted when this nonsense fair was first gotten up," said that lady. "Your head is so full of your fancy work that you can think of nothing else."

"Eh! What is that?" asked Miss McPherson.

"It is that Miss Stanfield is so careless that there is no bearing it, ma'am," answered Miss Meeks. "Her exercise is just a disgrace with blots, and the writing looks as if a powowet * had wagged over it." Miss Meeks was apt to get to her Scotch when excited. "I tell her, ma'am, it is a poor return for your kindness about the knitting work," pursued the teacher; "verra ungrateful, I must needs say."

* A tadpole or pollywog, as we call it hereabouts.

"It was not the knitting work," said Calista, very much hurt, but trying to speak civilly, as she knew how Miss McPherson was vexed by any rudeness to poor Miss Meeks. "I have had a great deal to think of this week, Miss Meeks, and I know I have been careless, but I will try to do better. I handed you the first copy of the exercise instead of the second—that is all. Here is the right one."

Miss McPherson took it from her hand and looked it over. "That is not bad," said she; "but you should not allow yourself to write carelessly at any time. However, Miss Meeks will excuse you this once."

"Of course," said the teacher, not very graciously however, and as she went away, she murmured something about favorites and absurd indulgence.

Miss McPherson only smiled. She understood Miss Meeks's good qualities, and she knew that the poor lady's irritability had a better excuse than that of most people.

"Really, Calista, my dear, you must try to do better, for your own sake," said she, gently. "Remember that you are losing opportunities which you may not have very long, and for which you are responsible. Whatever it is that's occupying your mind, put it aside in school time and give your whole attention to your lessons."

Calista felt the wisdom of the advice, and tried to follow it in school hours, but out of school, all her thoughts were occupied about what Mr. Settson had told her. Then the old Stanfield place was really hers, by right. Her grandfather had meant her to have it; he had made a will to that effect, and her aunt had either hidden or destroyed it. Of that Calista had no doubt, and conviction embittered her feeling towards Miss Priscilla to an almost intolerable degree.

"Oh, if I could find a chance, wouldn't I take one good look into grandfather's room?" she said to herself, looking up at the shutters, which she had never seen unbarred since she lived in the house.

The room in question opened from the now never used back parlor, and had been the General's private office. The back parlor was high and spacious, and contained two or three tall book-cases, at which Calista often gazed with longing eyes. They were always kept locked, and the faded green silk linings of the glass doors hid their contents effectually. The front parlor was kept in some sort of order, but the shutters were always closed, and the room was forbidden ground to Calista.

It was Wednesday, and the afternoon session of school was to be devoted to working for the much-talked-of fair. Calista had asked to be excused, and had come home. To her surprise, she found no one in the sitting-room.

"Where are my aunt and Miss Druett, Chloe?" she asked, going into the kitchen.

"Gone to town to see about some law business, I expect," was the answer. "What brings you here at this time of day?"

Calista explained.

"Oh, all right. Honey, you won't be afraid to stay in the house alone a little, will you? I want dreadful bad to run over and see Sally a little. She's got some stuff for the rheumatism, and I want to get the receipt. You can lock the doors, you know, if you are afraid. You won't be scared, will you?"

"No, of course not," replied Calista, inwardly rejoiced at being left alone in the house; "but you know what aunt will say if she comes home and finds you gone."

"Let her say," returned Chloe; "anyhow, I shall be back before she will. But I'd lock the doors if I were you."

There was no danger of Calista's neglecting this precaution. She had no mind to be surprised in the work she proposed to herself.

With a beating heart, she betook herself to the back parlor. She found the book-cases all locked but one, which seemed to contain nothing, only odd bound volumes of magazines and old newspapers. From these, Calista extracted some numbers of the "Gentleman's Magazine" and a couple of volumes of "La Belle Assemblée," which she laid aside, intending to carry them to her room. She then closed the doors and proceeded to examine the drawers under them. They contained nothing but rubbish—bits of old fancy work and such like—but in one of them she discovered a pretty leather working-case or equipage, as is used to be called, containing a still serviceable pair of scissors. This she put in her pocket, not without some misgivings.

Then she went out to the kitchen, and finding all still, she returned and tried the door of her grandfather's room. It was locked, as she expected, but as she gave the door a push, something fell within, the lock turned in her hand, and the door opened. Astonished and almost terrified at her own success, she examined the door, and perceived that the socket which held the bolt had fallen through the decay of the wood.

She looked round her. The room was almost dark, but a little light came through the round holes in the top of the shutters, enough to show her the old mahogany desk and arm-chair, the silent clock, and the once rich Turkey carpet which partly covered the floor, and from which quite a cloud of little moths rose up as she stepped upon it. Over the mantlepiece hung a portrait which she supposed to be that of her grandmother, and under it a beautiful painted miniature of a little boy.

"That was my father, I suppose," said Calista to herself. "I am glad grandfather kept his picture, at any rate."

She advanced to the desk and lifted the lid. It was empty, save for a few papers which did not seem to be of any special value; only old bills and leases. There was a recess in which lay an old-fashioned gold seal; Calista took it up, and put her hand back to see if there was anything else. There was nothing; but as she felt about, she touched a spring, a small cupboard door opened, and she saw, lying upon its shelves, half a dozen or more bright gold pieces of different sizes.

A strange feeling came over Calista at this sight—almost like that of a starving man at the sight of food. She saw the gold, and felt as if she must have it at any price—at any risk.

"It is yours by right," something said to her; "that and a great deal more. Take it. Take a part of it, at any rate. Very likely Miss Priscilla does not know of its existence, and will never miss it. She never comes into this room. Take the gold. Who has a better right?"

It seemed afterward to Calista that she stood debating the matter with herself for an hour. In reality, it was not for two minutes. She listened to the voice of the tempter, and stretched out her hand for the gold. She would have taken it in another moment—made the false step which, perhaps, she would never have retrieved. What stopped her?

Merely an old recollection. Merely the words which had come to her mind that night when she had first spoken to her Creator. The remembrance of Miss Malvina's words, "Your mother was a true Christian, and is waiting in her heavenly home for her little daughter."

Calista drew back her hand, like one who had seen a rattlesnake coiled under the fruit he was just going to gather. In all haste she pushed to the cupboard door, closed the desk, and fled to her own room, utterly forgetting that she had left a witness of her presence behind her in the books she had laid aside. Once in her own room, she threw herself on the bed, sobbing hysterically.

"Oh, mother! I didn't take it—I didn't take it!" she cried, as if speaking to an actual presence in the room. "Oh, mother! You saved me! I did not take the gold! I am not a thief! Oh, how glad I am that I didn't even touch it—"

She was still sobbing when she heard the clock strike, and knew that her aunt must soon be at home. She arose, bathed her face and smoothed her hair, and went down to the kitchen just in time to let in Chloe.

"I didn't mean to leave you alone so long, honey," said the old woman. "There's a cake old Sally sent you, to make up for it. But what's the matter?" she asked, looking curiously at Calista. "Did anything scare you?"

"Yes; I was a little frightened at staying alone so long; but never mind. You must hurry and get tea ready, for my aunt will be here directly."

"That's so, and she'll raise old Ned if she's kept waiting. There, put your cake away up stairs, and keep it for yourself. But first run and pick up some chips for me, there's a dear."

Calista was not sorry to get into the fresh air. She picked up the chips, and then wandered across the road to the old graveyard, and read the inscription on her grandfather's monument.

"Twelve years ago he died," she said to herself. "For twelve long years all his money and land have been no more to him. No, not as much as this little wild strawberry is to me. And his life in the other world has hardly begun yet. Twelve years. My mother has been dead longer than that; and what difference does it make to them that one died rich and the other poor!"

"We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain that we carry nothing out." Calista had heard these words many times, till they were as trite to her as they are, perhaps, to you and me; but to-day, sitting by her grandfather's grave, they took on a meaning as new as though an angel had just spoken them in her ear. She saw, as it is given to people sometimes to see, this life and the next in their true proportions and relations. She saw how near that other life lay to hers; how her daily path ran along its very margin, which it might cross at any minute. She saw how immeasurably little—how absolutely nothing—were all the interests of this life compared with that. A few times in almost every person's life, the veil is lifted which hangs between this life and that, and the spectator is shown a glimpse of the fair and dreadful things behind it; and a voice, not of this world, says,—

"These, THESE are the real things!"

The others are but dreams and shadows; or, at most, empty toys, broken before enjoyed, wounding the hand that grasps them. Woe to him if, having seen that sight and heard that voice, he goes on still in his own way, living as if there were no such thing! The other day I saw some sparrows busily making a nest in a building which was at that moment being torn down. The silly little birds were wise compared to such a man.

Calista rose at last, and busied herself in pulling up the weeds and thistles which grew on her grandfather's and grandmother's grave. She would have done the same for that of the first Mrs. Stanfield, Priscilla's mother, but it was overgrown with a poison vine which she dared not touch. She had but just finished her task when she saw the chaise drive up with her aunt and Miss Druett. She gathered a bunch of the fragrant honeysuckle and some of the exquisitely fluted buds of the laurel, and went in.

It was very easy to see that Miss Priscilla was in one of her worst humors. Calista had not exaggerated in saying that at such times she was like some strong wild animal. She glared at Calista when she came in, but said not a word. Calista put her flowers in water and came down to tea. Not a word was spoken till Miss Druett said, not unkindly—

"I saw you come across the road, Calista. Where had you been?"

"Only in the graveyard, Miss Druett."

"And what took you there, child? It is not cheerful place."

"No, indeed. I took a fancy to read the inscription on grandfather's monument. It is terribly out of repair, and will be tumbling down if it is not mended. And, Aunt Priscilla, your mother's grave is all covered with poison ivy!"

Miss Priscilla set down her teacup with shaking hands and stared at Calista, while her cheeks and even her lips became white.

"How dare you go there?" she stammered. "How dare you speak to me of graves?"

"Why, where is the harm?" said Calista. "I wanted to see the monuments. We must all go there some time or other, I suppose. Death seems about the only certain thing one has to look forward to," she continued, musingly, and speaking more to herself than her companions. "We are sure of that, whatever else happens."

"Be still!" almost screamed Miss Priscilla. "I won't hear such words! Druey, make her be still! Send her away! I shall dream of dying—I know I shall—and of the grave!"

"Hush, Priscilla. Don't excite yourself so. The child meant no harm," said Miss Druett. "There, run away, child, and ask Chloe for some supper, or go up to my room if you like. There is something for you on the bed."

Calista obeyed, wondering at the storm she had raised. She did not care for more supper, so she went up to Miss Druett's room, where she found two cheap but pretty new frocks and a straw bonnet such as other girls wore. Miss Druett had evidently carried her point somehow.

She ventured down to the sitting-room after awhile. She found Miss Priscilla asleep in her chair, as usual, and Miss Druett looking out of the window, as usual. Calista stole to a low seat beside her, and Miss Druett laid a hand on her head.

"Thank you ever so much for the dresses, Miss Druett," Calista whispered; "I know they were your buying—were they not?"

"Partly, and partly Mr. Settson's. Calista, you must never again speak to your aunt as you did to-night. I thought she would have a fit."

"I did not mean any harm, Miss Druett."

"I know it, child."

"And surely Aunt Priscilla knows that she must die some time."

"We know a great many things we do not like to think or speak about, child; and Priscilla has a greater horror of death than any one I ever saw."

"I don't see why she should, when she thinks that death ends everything," observed Calista.

"Yes, but you see there is always a terrible perhaps; and then the thought of annihilation is dreadful to most people. But—not to talk any more about that—tell me, Calla have you seen Old Zeke or his wife anywhere about lately?"

"No, not lately; at least, not that I am sure of," said Calista, considering. "I saw a very tall woman on the edge of the woods as I was coming home yesterday, but I was not near enough to see what she was like, only, as I said, she was very tall. Why?"

"Can I trust your discretion if I tell you?"

"I think so," answered Calista—less proudly than she would have said the words in the morning, for she still felt humbled in her own eyes.

Miss Druett put her head down to Calista's and whispered very low—

"Because I am afraid they are getting an influence over Priscilla again. I am much mistaken if she has not had an interview with one or other of them, and she has dropped more than one hint about spies and so on. I want you to keep your eyes and ears open, and tell me if you see anything. Hush, she is waking up. Get your knitting, child. You should not sit idle all the evening."

Miss Druett said these words aloud.

Miss Priscilla glanced sharply at her, but apparently saw nothing to rouse her suspicions, and the evening passed away as usual.

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.