Part 7

"And you will forgive me for being so rude this morning?" said Calista. "Indeed, Miss Meeks, I have my own troubles, too, or I should not have forgotten myself so."

"Oh, my dear, don't mention it. I dare say I was unreasonable. I have been in so much pain all the morning. You won't tell what you have seen—not to any one?" Miss Meeks held her hand and looked imploringly in her face.

"No, indeed," answered Calista, solemnly. "I promise you, Miss Meeks, I never will. Now, can I do anything else for you? For I suppose I should be going."

"Only hand me my Bible from the table. Thank you. Oh, my love, believe me, if you have trouble, as you say, this is the only source of comfort. I should die without it, or go mad. There, there, God bless you! Go."

"Who would have thought,—" said Calista, as, having obtained Miss McPherson's permission, she assumed Miss Meeks's place in the little school-room, and called the children to their lessons—"who would have thought that I, of all people, should be Miss Meeks's deputy?"

CHAPTER EIGHTH.

MARY.

"WHERE have you been all the morning?" asked Mary Settson, as she met Calista just after the noon recess was proclaimed. "I have not had a sight of you."

"You would never guess," said Calista. "I don't know how to believe it myself."

Calista spoke gayly. She felt in better spirits than she had done for a long time. Anything like a quarrel was always an annoyance to her; and she was very much pleased at having at last made friends with poor Miss Meeks.

Then she had thoroughly enjoyed her hour and a half of teaching. Every one likes to be of use, not to say of consequence. The little girls had been very good and orderly. They had read and spelled well, and recited their small portion of Pinnock's "Catechism" without a mistake; and Calista had rewarded them with the story of King Alfred learning to read and afterward watching the cakes. She had a great talent for narration, and had the pleasure of seeing her small audience listening with rapt attention, and of hearing a universal cry of:

"Oh, please, Miss Stanfield, go on. Tell us some more."

She had promised another story "some time;" and had promised to tell Miss McPherson and Miss Meeks how good they had been. So teacher and pupils had parted with mutual satisfaction.

"I am not good at guessing," said Mary.

"Well—but don't look incredulous, however strange my tale may appear—I have been sitting upon the throne of Miss Meeks and wielding her sceptre for a full hour and a half. In other words, I have been keeping order and hearing lessons in the little school-room. I—even I, myself. Think of that!"

Mary did think of it, and it did not please her. For the last year she had been used to being called upon to hear the little ones on emergencies; and though she was not fond of teaching, and often complained of the trouble, she did not dislike the consequence it gave her any more than did Calista. So it came to pass that there was some sharps in her tone as she said:

"How in the world did that happen? I should say you were the last one in the school likely to be called on to help Miss Meeks. I thought you had a quarrel only this morning."

"So we had, and that was exactly the way the wonderful event came to pass."

"You must speak more plainly if you want me to understand you."

"Well, it happened even so: Miss Meeks and I did have—well, not just a quarrel, but an outcome, as Miss Jessy says. It began with Antoinette in the first place, who called Miss Meeks to take her part, which she did, and scolded me as usual. I was vexed, and answered her back. Miss McPherson said I was rude—or, what was still worse, she made me say so,—" continued Calista, laughing and blushing—"and sent me to Miss Meeks's room to apologize. I found the poor thing very ill, and all but fainting away with a pain in her side, or something of the sort. She would not let me call any one, and I waited on her as well as I could, till she was better.

"But she felt very faint and weak after the pain, and so I persuaded her to keep quiet till dinner, and let me hear the little girls. She said I might if Miss McPherson was willing. So I asked her, and she said I might. The children were very good and said their lessons nicely, and I rewarded them with the very new and original narration of King Alfred burning the oat-cakes, with which they were as hugely delighted as if nobody had heard it before. And, in fact, though it is hard to believe it, I suppose a story is new to every child that hears it for the first time;" with which original reflection Calista concluded her own story.

"Well, I must say, I think it was odd in Miss McPherson to send you," said Mary, in a tone which trembled a little in spite of herself. "I wonder what I could have done to displease her?"

"Nothing, I presume," answered Calista, in surprise. "Why should you think so?"

"Because she has always asked me to hear the scholars in the little room before, and I don't see why she should choose some one else."

"Why, goosie, because I went to her. Miss Meeks told me to ask her, and of course she said yes. Besides, you were busy, and I was not. I learned all my lessons before I came to school. What could be more natural?"

"I don't believe it was that," said Mary, her voice shaking more and more. "She is displeased about something. I am sure I have always done my best with the little girls. If I have not told them stories and amused them, I have tried to have them learn, and it is very hard to have anybody put over my head without giving me any reason." Mary was fairly crying.

"Mary, you are too silly for anything," said Calista, vexed for the moment. "Nobody has been put over your head. Don't you see how naturally it all happened? Suppose I had asked Miss McPherson, and she had said, 'No, I prefer Miss Settson should do it;' do you think I should cry about it? Not I. I should just have thought, 'Mary has had more experience; it is natural Miss McPherson should prefer her.'"

"That is just what I say. I have had more experience."

"You had not more experience when you began, I suppose. There must be a first time. I dare say Miss McPherson thought it would be a good lesson for me."

"I am sure Miss McPherson would not have chosen some one else unless she had something against me," continued Mary. "She acted as if she had yesterday. She praised Mary Burns's work up to the skies, though it only a rug made of bits out of her father's shop, and all she said to mine was, 'Yes, very pretty, my dear.'"

"Well, you know Mary is poor, and has very little to give, and I do think her rug is wonderful, considering what it is made of. It looks like a bit of Persian carpet. I have always noticed what a good eye Mary has for colors. She would paint better than Clary Whitman if she had the chance to learn."

"Oh, yes, she is the eighth wonder of the world, no doubt! But I don't think I shall send anything to the table, or go to the meetings any more. If my work is not worth noticing, it certainly is not worth selling."

"Look here, Mary," said Calista, gravely, "you are always lecturing me about loving the world, and now I am going to lecture you a little. You think a great deal too much about being praised—about having people think well of you. Now it seems to me that the praise of men, as Elizabeth Howell says, is just as much one of the things of the world that we are not to love, as money or fine clothes. Of course we all like the good opinion of our friends; but when it comes to being distressed because somebody else is asked to do something, or because some other person's work is praised more than one's own, why I think it is time to take a look and see where one is going."

Mary was silent, and twisted her chair. She felt the words were true, and she did not like them any the better for that. She had always assumed a certain superiority over her friend, to which Calista had humbly assented, and it was not agreeable to be taken to task in her turn.

"Come, don't let's spoil our recess," said Calista, in a lighter tone; "you know you promised to teach me the fan stitch, and I brought my needles on purpose."

"You had better ask Mary Burns to show you," answered Mary, in a tone which was meant to be dignified, but was only stiff; "I don't know that I care about teaching any one who has such an opinion of me as you seem to entertain. I thought I had one friend at least in the school, but it seems I was mistaken!" And Mary's wounded feelings and temper—two things which are apt to get very much mixed up together—found vent in a flood of tears.

"Nonsense!" said Calista, vexed in her turn. "Mary, you are too absurd. You are always lecturing me, and I am content you should; but the minute I say a word to you, you flare up in this way. I should think I had enough to put up with, without your turning on me. I don't know but that is the 'spirit of Christ,'" she concluded, alluding to the verse Mary had repeated in the morning, "but I must say it does not seem much like it to me."

And with this parting shot, which was a sufficiently sharp one, Calista went away and left Mary to her own reflections.

"Dear me!" she said to herself, in some natural impatience. "It does seem as if I never could be comfortable half an hour together. Who would ever have thought of her taking matters in that way!"

If Calista was uncomfortable, Mary was still more so. She was really trying very hard to be a Christian, but on this particular point she had never learned to know herself, or to call things by their right names. She had often said to herself that she did not love money, or fine clothes, or gay amusements—all of which was true—therefore she did not love the world. But "the world" takes a great many shapes, and creeps in at a great many holes and corners; and whatever petty disguises it may put on, it is the same world still, the intimate ally and friend of "the flesh and the devil."

Praise was Mary's "world"—appreciation she called it. She loved to stand well in the eyes of other people, to be called the best scholar and the neatest worker in school, the model member of the catechism class in church. She liked to know that she was pointed out as an example of early piety by the pastor, as a good sister and daughter at home. She loved the praise of men, and that love, as it always does, was beginning to spring up and bear fruit—poison fruit, which, if the vine was not plucked up by the roots, threatened to choke the word and make it unfruitful, as surely as the deceitfulness of riches would have done. It was coming to that with her that she did not like to have any one praised but herself—that she felt all commendation of another as so much taken from her own share.

Miss McPherson had praised Mary's homely work more than her own exquisite netted fringe. That very morning, in the French class, she had told Anabella Adair that she had improved very much in accent and style, and had only included herself in the "very well, my dears," addressed to the whole class. And now, to crown all, she had given the charge of the little ones to Calista, who had not only taught them, but interested and amused them as well. No doubt the ungrateful little things were saying at that moment that they liked Miss Stanfield better than Miss Settson—very likely they would say so to Miss Meeks and Miss McPherson. Mary almost felt as though she could never come to school or speak to Calista again.

John Bunyan, with that wonderful experimental knowledge which seems like inspiration, says that one leak is enough to sink a ship, and one sin to destroy a sinner. There is no doubt at all that one known and acknowledged sin is enough to undermine the Christian character of the best saint that ever lived, if it is indulged or harbored after its true character comes to be known.

Mary had, for some time, had an uneasiness as to this very matter. She felt that here was her weak point, but she did not like to examine and make sure of it, which was as wise as if a ship's captain should refuse to examine a suspected spar or defective cable. She was strong everywhere else, and she did not consider that the weakest link—not the strongest—measures the strength of the chain. Even now she was made aware that she had been unkind to Calista and unjust to Miss McPherson, but she would not acknowledge to herself that the root of the trouble lay in her inordinate love of praise. No, Calista had provoked her and Miss McPherson had taken pains to mortify her, but it was her duty to overlook it, and she would do so by treating Calista just as usual, even by offering to show her the fan stitch—no, she would not do that, either; but if Calista asked her again, she would not refuse.

Smoothing matters over in this fashion was not the way to attain peace, and Mary was destined to have a still harsher lesson.

Calista ran up to Miss Meeks's room and tapped lightly, opening the door in answer to the summons from within. She found Miss Meeks up and dressed. She looked pale and worn, but declared herself quite able to come down stairs.

"I thought I would just tell you that the little girls behaved very well and said their lessons nicely," said Calista.

"Did they? I am very glad. I think they are usually good, though I fear I am sometimes sharp with them. Did they say their English kings?"

"Yes, ma'am, nicely; and I told them about King Alfred and the oat-cakes, to reward them. Was that right?"

"Quite right. I often wish I possessed the talent for narration which some people have. It is quite invaluable in dealing with young children. Will you please fasten my dress, my dear? I am glad you succeeded in interesting the children," continued Miss Meeks. "I shall, perhaps, ask you to help me again, some day. Miss Settson is very good and conscientious, but she has an unfortunate manner with children."

"I am sure I shall be glad to help you at any time, Miss Meeks," said Calista, as they went down stairs together. "But I am surprised to hear you say that about Mary. I thought she did everything better than any one else—let alone poor me."

"It is not to be denied that she does a great many things better than 'poor you,'" replied Miss Meeks, with a smile, which was not at all severe this time. "Keeping her desk in order and copying her exercises, among others. But different people have different gifts, you know."

"I am sure I am glad if teaching is one of mine," observed Calista. "It seems the only way for a lady to earn a living nowadays."

"Surely there will be no necessity for that," said Miss Meeks. "I supposed you were your aunt's heir as a matter of course."

"Oh dear, no," answered Calista. "My aunt barely tolerates my existence. I should not be one bit surprised at her throwing me on my own resources any day. So, Miss Meeks, I shall be glad if you will let me help you at any time, not only because I like to be of use, but because I like to learn all I can."

Unluckily, this speech was overheard by Antoinette Diaments. Antoinette hated Calista with all the venom of a small and mean nature, because of the scrape she had gotten into about Tessy's change; though Calista had nothing to do with the transaction, beyond being an accidental witness of it. Moreover, Antoinette considered Miss Meeks as her own particular property, and had hitherto, as we have said, succeeded in keeping that lady very much in the dark as to her real character. She, therefore, instantly resolved to "put a spoke in Calista's wheel," as she elegantly expressed it.

"Well, Calista, I should think you would be ashamed to ask such a thing of Miss Meeks, after the way you were talking and laughing about her not half an hour ago."

Miss Meeks's pale cheek flushed, and she cast one of her old suspicious glances at Calista.

"Antoinette, what do you mean?" exclaimed Calista. "I have not said a word to any one but Mary Settson about Miss Meeks."

"Just so; and you were laughing with her about Miss Meeks's throne and sceptre. I heard you myself."

"You can ask Mary about it, Miss Meeks," said Calista. "Here she is. Mary, Antoinette says I was laughing about Miss Meeks to you this morning. Is that true?"

Calista spoke with a trust in Mary's uprightness as firm as her trust in the ground she walked on. But even the ground is sometimes shaken. Mary had opened the gate of her heart to the world, and the world in turn opened to its friend the devil. If the ground had, indeed, opened under her feet, Calista could not have been more astounded than she was when Mary answered:

"I don't know, of course, whether you were laughing at her or not. You certainly were laughing when you told me that you had been sitting in her throne and wielding her sceptre, and when you told how you went to her room and found her sick."

Calista's face grew pale, and then flushed with honest indignation and wounded feeling.

"Mary!"

It was all she said. Miss Meeks looked keenly from one to another. She was clear-sighted enough when not blinded by prejudice or by the irritability of suppressed suffering, and she knew Mary's weakness far better than did Mary herself.

"I shall believe what you say, Calista," said she. "Did you mean to turn me into ridicule or not?"

"No, Miss Meeks, I never thought of such a thing—never." said Calista, with emphasis. "I did use those words, as any one might; but I no more thought of turning you into ridicule, or above all laughing about your illness, than I should think of laughing about my own dead mother."

"I believe you," said Miss Meeks. "You have your faults, but I never knew untruth to be one of them. To show you that I trust you, I shall, if agreeable to you, request Miss McPherson to allow you to sit with me in the small room this afternoon and oversee the children's work."

"Thank you, Miss Meeks; I shall like it very much," said Calista, and she turned away and followed the teacher into the dining-room, without so much as looking at Mary.

She usually enjoyed the school dinners, which, if plain, were abundant and dealt out without stint; but to-day her roast mutton and cherry pie tart seemed to choke her. That Mary should use her so! She did not wonder at Antoinette; but Mary—Mary, whom she had looked upon as the very pattern and exemplar of all that was good, and loved with the passionate love of a first friendship. It seemed to Calista as if she would never believe in anybody again.

If Calista was sorrowful, Mary herself was utterly wretched. At first she had tried to excuse herself to herself—to gloss the matter over as she had done with a good many things lately; but it would not do. She felt that she had told a lie, and meant to tell one, though every word she had said had been literally true. Calista had used these words, and had laughed as she did so; but Mary knew well enough that she had conveyed a false impression, and meant to convey one; that Calista had not laughed at Miss Meeks, but on the contrary had spoken of her with the greatest kindness.

Ever since she had first been awakened in religious matters, Mary had cultivated the habit (and a most useful and excellent one it is) of retiring a few minutes at noon for self-examination and prayer. As she entered her room this day, she was strongly tempted to omit her usual exercise, and hurry down stairs; but the habit was too strong for her. She sat down in her usual place, and almost mechanically opened her Bible.

"If thou bring thy gift to the altar, and there rememberest that thy brother hath aught against thee; leave there thy gift before the altar, and go thy way; first be reconciled to thy brother, and then come and offer thy gift." (Matt. 5:23, 24.)

Mary shut her book almost impatiently, and opened again.

"Love not the world, neither the things that are in the world. If any man love the world, the love of the Father is not in him." (1 John 2:15.)

There was not much comfort in that, either. She wished to find some "promise" on which she might dwell and meditate or imagine herself into a state of complacency; but One was dealing with her who would allow no such comfortable self-deception. She was, as it were, set down before the mirror of truth and made to see herself, and that in despite of her will to the contrary. What had she done? She had been envious of another's pleasure and honor, and she had allowed herself to indulge in a slanderous misrepresentation to injure her best friend, because that friend had been accidentally preferred before her. Nor was she allowed to take refuge in the idea that she had been overcome by a sudden and irresistible temptation. She knew better. Her fall had not been sudden, as indeed such falls seldom are.

Looking back, she could see that she had been preparing the way for just such a failure. It was true, as Calista said: she had allowed herself to indulge in that envy which eats like a canker. She had not liked to hear any one praised but herself for a long time past. She had done her work in school and at home, not for her Lord and Master, but that she might be seen of men.

The same was true of her charitable work among the poor children whom she taught and helped to clothe. She had been provoked downright when Mrs. Lee showed her the pretty and useful little dress which Belle Adair had made out of one of her own for poor Chloe Jackson's youngest girl, and she turned scarlet as she remembered how she had taken occasion to say that Belle was a very gay girl who would never listen to a serious word.

And now she had wounded Calista to the heart, and disgraced herself in the eyes of her teacher and herself, all for what? Because Calista had been asked to do, and had done well, something which she did not like, and never undertook willingly. Calista had been praised, that was enough.

"Oh, what shall I do! What shall I do!" said Mary, almost aloud, and with bitter tears of grief and self-abasement. She opened her Bible and read again:

"Remember therefore from whence thou art fallen, and repent, and do the first works." (Rev. 2:5.)

And again:

"If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us. If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness." (1 John 1:8, 9.)

Clearly this was the right and only way to peace. Mary knelt down and then and there confessed this her besetting sin, asked for deliverance and forgiveness, and that cleansing promised to all who seek it. She did not deceive herself now, but called things by right, plain Bible names—envy, emulation, slander, detraction.

There is an old fairy tale found in almost every language, which has always seemed to me to shadow forth a great truth. It is that of a man beset by a demon or malign imp of some sort, for whom he is obliged to perform all sorts of hard tasks and pay all sorts of penalties, till he succeeds in discovering the true name of his tormentor, after which the thing has no more power, but flies discomfited. Mary had called her demons by their right names, and their power was broken for that time, at least.

She was still on her knees when she was interrupted by a knock at the door and a call of:

"Miss Mary!"

"Yes, Miranda; what is it?" asked Mary, without opening the door.

"Oh, nothing, only your pa and Miss Alice have gone out to old Mrs. Skovell's, at Greenwich, and won't be back till night. I thought maybe you wouldn't care about much dinner alone, so I just got you a cup of chocolate and a strawberry short-cake and some sandwiches. But I can cook some meat if you'd rather have it."

"No, thank you, Miranda; I would rather have the chocolate than anything. I am in a hurry to get back to school."