Part 8

Mary did not feel like eating, but she took a cup of chocolate and a piece of the tempting short-cake, to spare Miranda's feelings, and hastened back to school. She went straight to the little school-room, where she knew she would find Miss Meeks. That lady looked up, when she entered, in surprise and some displeasure. She did not like to have her hour of leisure interrupted.

"Miss Meeks," said Mary, in a voice which trembled a good deal, "I have come to tell you that what I said about Calista this morning was not true. She did use those words, but there was no disrespect in the way she used them, and I am sure she meant none. She was very much pleased because she succeeded so well, and I—" Mary's voice faltered, but she steadied it and went on—"I was provoked because she succeeded, and envious and jealous of her being praised."

"So I saw," said Miss Meeks. "I am very glad you have come to a sense of your fault, Mary. I hope it will be a lesson to you to check the beginnings of a spirit of detraction, and I doubt not it will. I shall have to ask your help this afternoon, after all, for I am not feeling well."

"I am sure I shall be very glad to help you," answered Mary, swallowing a great lump of pride which would rise in her throat at that "after all." "But where is Calista?"

"Oh, she has gone home. Her aunt sent for her. I felt sorry for her, for I think she anticipated something not very pleasant. I fancy her aunt is an odd-tempered woman."

"Odd-tempered is no name for it," said Mary.

"Oh, well, I am sorry for her. I have had some experience. I don't know how it is," added Miss Meeks, musingly, "but all my life long it has been my fate to live with odd-tempered people."

Mary could not help thinking that this fate was one likely to follow Miss Meeks as long as she retained the infirmities of mortality; but she said nothing, and busied herself with the basket of patchwork on which the youngest children were learning to use their fingers. She had had too plain and too recent a view of her own faults and infirmities to be very hard on those of other people.

CHAPTER NINTH.

THE STORM BREAKS.

MISS MEEKS was right. It was with no pleasant anticipations that Calista took her seat in the rickety chaise which her aunt had sent for her. Old David, who drove, was evidently in a state of deep and dire offence, and nothing could be got out of him except that Miss Priscy was in one of her tantrums, and if Chloe was a-going to stand such goings on any longer, he wasn't.

Calista alighted and went straight up the back stairs to her own room, hoping for a few minutes of solitude in which to collect her spirits. She was disappointed. The door of a certain store-room opposite her own, which was usually kept fast locked, was open, and in it stood Miss Priscilla, clearly in a "tantrum" of the worst sort. Her face was flushed, her cap half off her head, and her gray hair all in disorder. Opposite her stood Miss Druett, more disturbed in appearance than was at all usual with her. Miss Priscilla faced round as Calista came across the passage, and caught her by the arm with a grip that seemed to crush the very bone.

"So, here she is," she said, through her set teeth. "This fine young lady, who prowls about the house, prying and meddling, to see what she can steal. A worthy daughter of Richard Stanfield and his low-born scheming wife!"

"Take your hand off my arm, Aunt Priscilla!" said Calista, in a voice which sounded strange to herself. "Do you hear me?"

Miss Priscilla released her arm; but it was only to pour out a renewed flood of abuse, directed to Calista herself, her father and mother, Miss McPherson, and every one else for whom Calista had any regard, or with whom she had any connection. At last, as she paused to take breath, Calista said coolly,—

"Well, now, I should like to know what all this is about?"

"About!" Miss Priscilla fairly gasped. "You dare to ask such a question?"

"It does not take any particular bravery that I know of," answered Calista, whose own blood was up by this time. "When one sees an old lady raving like a mad woman, one naturally likes to know the reason, if she has any."

"Calista!" said Miss Druett, warningly.

"Tell me, you—you spy and traitor—did you not go into the back parlor and pull over the book-cases, and into my father's room? Tell me this instant. Dare you deny it?"

"Why should I deny it?" asked Calista. "Where was the harm? I was here alone, and I went to look for something to amuse myself with, and to see what there was in the house."

"And what did you carry off? What did you steal?"

"As it happened, there was nothing in the book-case I looked into that was worth stealing, unless it were this old working-case," said Calista, producing the article in question from her pocket. "That has a good pair of small scissors in it, and I want a pair, so I took them to use. There they are, if you want them."

Miss Priscilla snatched the case from her hand.

"So, you took it to school, did you? Well, you won't take anything else to school very soon. You have had all the schooling you will get for some time, my fine lady. I will find you plenty of work at home."

Miss Priscilla turned into the little store-room, and began taking down the dusty, moth-eaten garments with which the walls were plentifully hung. Calista followed her into the room, reckless of consequences, for she had caught sight of something which made her forget everything, even her aunt's rage. The something was a pile of two or three trunks—old-fashioned heavy leather portmanteaus—marked on the end "Calista Folsom."

Calista remembered them on the instant. They were the very trunks Miss Malvina had shown her, and on which she had made the little girl spell out the name, so many years ago.

"My mother's trunks!" exclaimed Calista, feeling as if she must have them, whether or no. "My own mother's things! Oh, Aunt Priscilla, let me have them, and I will do anything for you—anything you tell me!"

"Oh, you will!" said Miss Priscilla, with a malicious smile. "You are very submissive all at once. I fancy, before we have done, you will do what I tell you without any trunks."

"For shame, Priscilla!" said Miss Druett's deep voice. "How can you expose yourself so? The child has done no harm. She has not even been disobedient, that I see, though she may have been indiscreet. Let her have her mother's trunks—she has the best right to them—and say no more about the matter."

"How dare you!" said Miss Priscilla, turning furiously upon her. "You are no better than she. Do you think I don't know you? Don't I know how you fell in love with Richard Stanfield and tried to get him, though he cared no more for you than for his old shoes, and so you take the part of his girl now. You shall leave my house. Yes, all of you. I won't have such a crew of spies and thieves about me any longer."

Miss Druett looked straight at Priscilla all the time she was speaking, without uttering a word or moving a muscle of her countenance. Then she said quite calmly, without a tremor in her singular, musically harsh voice:

"Very well, Priscilla; you shall not tell me twice to leave your house after all these years. But I advise you to think again before you disgrace yourself without remedy."

So saying, she went into her own room and shut the door.

Miss Priscilla looked after her a moment. Then she pushed Calista into her own room, and threw after her a heap of the musty-smelling woollen garments which she had taken down from the nails.

"There is some fancy work for you, since you want amusement," said she. "You shall cut every one of them into carpet-rags before you leave that room."

She closed the door, and Calista heard her lock that and the room opposite before she went down stairs.

Calista, though she had been so cool with her aunt, was in a tempest of rage and mortification. She had never met with any personal violence before, except a box on the ear now and then when she was a little girl. And now to be so insulted and degraded before the servants; to hear her father and mother abused and slandered; to see her own mother's property, and not to be allowed to touch it,—it was too much. Her head swam, her eyes seemed full to bursting, and she felt as though she could have killed Aunt Priscilla on the spot. A burst of tears came at last to her relief. She cried passionately for a long time, till her mood calmed itself. And she began to consider her situation and think what she had better do.

Look at it as she would, she could not see that she had done anything very wrong. True, she had put the working-case in her pocket, but she certainly had no intention of stealing it; and though she had been tempted to take the gold pieces, she had not touched them with her little finger. She did not feel that she had wronged Miss Priscilla in any way. Neither could she feel under any obligation to her. Kindness she had had none, and as to support, it was clear from Mr. Settson's story that her grandfather had intended to give her father his share of the estate, which, therefore, owed her much more than the bare maintenance she had received from it.

She felt that she could not stay longer with Miss Priscilla if Miss Druett went away, and that she would go Calista was pretty sure. At last she made up her mind. She would go to Mr. Settson, lay the whole matter before him, and be guided by his advice. At another time she would have looked forward with pleasure to residing in his family, but Mary's conduct in the morning had thrown a cloud over that prospect. Perhaps Miss McPherson would let her live in the school for the help she would give Miss Meeks and Miss Jessie. Miss Priscilla could not keep her shut up always, and as soon as she was at liberty, she would hasten to town, lay the case before her best friends, and be guided by their opinion.

Having settled this matter in her mind, Calista felt comfortable. She bathed her eyes, arranged her hair and her dress, and looked about for something wherewith to divert herself. She could not perform the task of cutting carpet-rags, even if she had been so disposed, for the very sufficient reason that she had no scissors; so she hung the garments away in a disused closet, after examining the pockets of the coats, in one of which she actually found an old sixpence.

"Really, what a treasure!" said Calista. "I think I will hand it over to Aunt Priscilla; or shall I buy a lead pencil with it?"

There was nothing else to be found except an old pocketbook, which contained nothing whatever.

She took down her treasured "Cecelia" from its niche; but even the story of the silver gauze and the trouble resulting from its purchase could not fix her attention, so she took out her knitting, and found a more effectual diversion in the intricacies of feather stitch.

Calista had almost forgotten her trouble for the moment, when the door was unlocked, and Chloe put her head into the room.

"You are to go down to supper, Miss Calista, if that is any great privilege," said she.

"Who says so?" asked Calista.

"Miss Priscilla. She says you are to come down now. Reckon she's afraid to stay alone any longer. Well, I know one thing—if I didn't believe in the Lord, I wouldn't be so dreadful afraid of the devil."

"Perhaps you would, now," said Calista, as she took up her work and prepared to go down stairs. "I rather think those who fear the Lord most are just those who have fewest fears of anything else."

"I reckon you are about right there," said Chloe. "Anyhow, I know one thing: I ain't a-going to stay here much longer. But I must go and get supper."

Calista descended to the sitting-room, wondering what kind of a reception she should meet, and determining if her aunt laid hands on her again, to leave the house at once. But Miss Priscilla's mood had worked itself out for the time.

"Well, Miss Stanfield—so you have condescended to come down?" said she, in the bitter, sarcastic tone in which she usually spoke to her niece. "And, pray, how many carpet-rags have you cut this afternoon."

"None at all," answered Calista, concisely.

"Oh! I suppose such work is not fine enough for your mother's daughter."

"Neither my mother's daughter nor any one else can cut carpet-rags without scissors, and you know very well I have none," answered Calista.

"Oh! Is it possible? But if you had them, no doubt you would not use them. Of course, Miss Folsom's daughter would not stoop to anything so ungenteel. She must keep her hands white and soft, so that she may catch a rich husband, like her mother."

"Miss Stanfield," said Calista firmly, "if you say another word about my mother, I will leave this house and never enter it again while you are in it!"

Miss Priscilla looked at Calista, as she stood tall and stately in her young beauty, and seemed to think she had gone far enough.

"Don't be a fool, child," said she. "Sit down and be quiet! Who cares for your mother?"

"I do!" said Calista, firmly. "And I will not hear her abused."

"Well, well, sit down! What is that in your hand?"

"The knitting I am doing for Miss McPherson."

Miss Priscilla gave a kind of grunt, and the two sat in silence till Chloe came in to set the table.

Now, setting a tea-table is, in itself considered, an act of a peaceful and even softening nature; but Chloe converted it into a declaration of war by her manner of performing the same. She reproached Miss Stanfield with the bread, upbraided her with the butter, defied her with the milk, and, so to speak, threw at her head every article she put down. She knew that Miss Stanfield detested anything like a clatter, and she hit every spoon against every other spoon and every dish against every other dish on the table. She made separate journeys to the kitchen for everything she wanted, and slammed more doors than would have been supposed to be in the famous palace of the one-eyed Calender.

"Supper is ready!" said Chloe at last, when she could by no possibility spin her preparations out any longer.

"Well, why don't you ring the bell, then?" asked Miss Priscilla, fretfully. "Where is Miss Druett?"

"Miss Druett ain't a-coming down!" answered Chloe.

"Not coming down! Why not?"

"She says she is too busy. And I have took her tea up to her."

"Why, what is she doing?" asked Miss Priscilla.

"She is a-taking of her things out of her drawers and a-looking of them over, and a-laying of them in her trunks," answered Chloe, with great deliberation and an evident enjoyment of her words and of the annoyance produced by them. "David and me has brought her trunks down out of the garret, and David is a-going to take the biggest of 'em over to Cohansey to be mended when he goes in the morning. And I have took her tea up to her room, and she is a-drinking of it there, so there is no use of waiting for her."

Miss Priscilla took her place at the tea-board with an impatient—"Well, there, you may go!"

And Chloe retired, firing off another volley of what Mr. Sydney Smith calls "wooden swearing," on her way to her own quarters.

Miss Priscilla did not like to make her own tea, and that for an odd reason. She liked it very sweet, and she never could bring herself to put in as much sugar as she wanted. However, she poured out the weak beverage and handed a cup to Calista, who received it with a formal "Thank you."

No more was said till, to her surprise, Miss Priscilla asked Calista if she would have another cup of tea.

"If you please," said Calista, with equally formal politeness, determined to give no opening for another outbreak if she could help it.

Not another word was spoken.

Miss Priscilla composed herself for her usual nap, and Calista was about to leave the room when she was recalled by a—

"Don't go. Sit here with your work," which she could not but think had something rather imploring in its tone.

"I wonder whether she really is afraid to stay alone," thought Calista, as she resumed her seat.

She knitted in silence till it was too dark to see; and then, leaning on the window-seat, she meditated on the various things which had happened during the day.

She was gaining the mastery over her own spirit. Mary had treated her not only unkindly, but, what was much worse, treacherously; for she argued with herself that it was impossible for Mary so to misunderstand her as to think that she was really laughing at Miss Meeks. Mary had been at once her idol and her pattern for nearly two years; a pattern unapproachable in its perfection, it was true, but still her model of all that was good and lovely. And now that idol was fallen—a very Dagon—in helpless ruin, and the fair model was chipped and stained—no more to be a model, but only a sad warning. As Calista thought of it, in her girlish exaggeration and passion, she said to herself, more than once, "I wish she had died, like poor little Julia Lawrence, last year."

Calista did not know what death meant, any more than any other young creature who has only seen it at a distance. It is curious, but, I believe, quite true, that young people are apt to think of death just in this way, as an easy method of escape. She did not realize what it would be to have no Mary anywhere within reach; no possibility of explanation or "making up;" no possibility of finding Mary any more, though she should go all over the world to look for her.

She was but a child, after all, with a child's experiences. Still, as she thought of the dead girl, with whom she had had a merry game only the day before she had seen her laid out on her narrow white bed, her heart grew soft toward her friend, and she said to herself that she would try to forgive Mary.

"I am sure she will be sorry when she thinks about it," she said to herself. "I need forgiveness enough myself, for that matter; and Mary has done nothing worse than I was tempted to do. To be sure, I was not overcome by the temptation; but that was no thanks to me."

And then Calista went back to her childish days, and began to recall all she could remember about them and Miss Malvina.

"I am sure those are mother's trunks. I remember Miss Malvina making me spell out the name on the end—'Calista Folsom'—and telling me that it was my dear mother's name, and that those were her things. Oh, if I could only get possession of them! I mean to ask Mr. Settson if there is anything to be done. There, Aunt Priscilla is waking up."

In fact, Miss Priscilla roused herself and Chloe brought in the candles at one and the same moment.

"Druey—why, where is Druey?" asked Miss Priscilla, rubbing her eyes. "Chloe, where is Miss Druett?"

"She is up in her room, and she ain't a-coming down to-night, either," was Chloe's answer, as she slapped down first the candlesticks and then the snuffer-tray. "I've took her up a candle, half an hour ago."

"But she must come down. What does she think I am going to do all the evening? Go up to her, Chloe, and tell her—no, ask her if she isn't coming down to play cribbage."

"Oh, well, I can go, of course," said Chloe, "but it won't do any good."

She departed on her errand, accordingly, and returned with the message that Miss Druett was very tired and must be excused to-night.

Miss Priscilla fretted, and all but cried, like a child deprived of a plaything.

"And you are no good—no good at all," she said to Calista. "I don't suppose you could ever learn cribbage."

"I don't know, I am sure," answered Calista; and then, moved by a feeling of compassion for which she could hardly account herself, she added, "but I will try, Aunt Priscilla, if it will amuse you to teach me."

Miss Priscilla seemed to think even the prospect of teaching Calista better than no game at all, and the board was set out. But cribbage is a difficult game to learn under the most favorable circumstances. Perhaps Miss Priscilla was not a patient or skillful teacher, or Calista was more than usually dull. Certain it is that after a short trial, she abandoned the attempt in despair.

"There, it is of no use, I never could teach anybody anything. Put the things away, child."

"I am sorry," said Calista, and she really was sorry to see the poor withered, peevish woman deprived of one of the very few pleasures she allowed herself; "perhaps if I were to try again—"

"No, no, never mind. Take your knitting. It is very good-natured of you, though, I must allow."

Calista listened in amazement. It was literally the very first word of commendation she had ever received Aunt Priscilla. She took up her work again, and the two sat in silence till Miss Priscilla said, abruptly but not angrily—

"Calista, what made you go into that room?"

"Only curiosity," answered Calista. "I was looking in the book-case, and picked out some old books and papers to read. Then I tried the door of grandfather's room and found it would open, so I went in to see what was there."

"And what did you see there? Come, tell me," said Miss Priscilla, almost coaxingly.

"Surely, aunt, you know what is there as well as I do, or better."

"Well, never mind that. Tell me what you saw."

"A great many moths, for one thing," said Calista; "the carpet is full of them. And I saw a picture which I suppose was one of grandfather's wives; a fair woman, with light hair rolled on a cushion."

"Yes, that is your grandmother. Well?"

"And I saw another picture, a miniature of a young boy, which I suppose was my father."

"Well, and what else?" asked Miss Priscilla, as Calista paused. "My father's desk is there; did you look into it?"

"I did," answered Calista, briefly, determined to tell the truth at all risks.

"Well, what did you find? Don't be afraid to tell me."

"I am not afraid," answered Calista. "I saw a good many old papers—I don't know what they were. Then I saw an old seal lying in one of the pigeon-holes, and took it up to look at it. Then I put my hand back in the hole to see if there was anything else, and in so doing I touched the spring that opened the cupboard door where the gold pieces are. Then I shut it all up and went up to my own room."

"Gold!" said Miss Priscilla, sitting up straight and startled in her chair. "What gold?"

"The gold pieces in the little cupboard, aunt. Did not you know they were there?"

"I! No, indeed! I have never touched a thing in the desk since my father died—never been into the room since he was buried. How much gold was there?"

"I don't know; I did not count it: six or seven gold pieces—English, I should think."

"Where is the cupboard?" demanded Miss Priscilla, her eyes glittering and her face flushed with excitement.

"In the desk, as I told you," answered Calista; "it is in one side of the desk, over the little drawers and shelves. Nobody would think it was there."

"Then I dare say there is one on the other side just like it. I suppose you did not look to see?"

"No, I did not. When I saw the money, I did not wish to meddle any further."

"Calista," said Miss Priscilla, in a low, trembling tone, and laying her hand on Calista's arm, "you need not cut any carpet-rags, unless you like."

"Thank you," said Calista, dryly.

"And—and you may go to school to-morrow, and—and the rest of the term, if you will only go and bring me those gold pieces, and whatever else you can find in your grandfather's desk."

"I would rather not, aunt," answered Calista, proudly. "There might not be quite as many as I said, and then you would think I had stolen them. And, by the way, here is a sixpence I found in the house this afternoon."

Habit stretched out Miss Priscilla's lean fingers to the sixpence, and greed of greater gain drew them back.

"You may keep the sixpence, child—only don't waste it—and perhaps I will give you more some time. No, I won't think you stole anything. Come, do go and bring that gold. It isn't safe. Some one else might find it."

"Why not go yourself, aunt?" asked Calista, surprised at her aunt's pertinacity. "I will hold the light for you, if that will do any good."