Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: _Old Stanfield House.—Frontispiece._
"Evening, Zeke," said Cassius.]
THE
OLD STANFIELD HOUSE;
OR,
THE SIN OF COVETOUSNESS.
BY
LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY
AUTHOR OF
"IRISH AMY," "THE FAIRCHILDS," "RHODA'S EDUCATION," ETC., ETC.
——————————
"Love not the world, neither the things that are in the world."
——————————
PHILADELPHIA:
AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION
NO. 1122 CHESTNUT STREET.
——————————
NEW YORK: NO. 8 AND 10 BIBLE HOUSE, ASTOR PLACE.
CHICAGO: 73 RANDOLPH ST.
————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1880, by the
AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
CONTENTS.
——————
CHAP.
I.—THE OLD HOUSE
II.—SCHOOL
III.—AUNT BETSY
IV.—CASSIUS
V.—CALISTA ASKS A QUESTION
VI.—THE SECRET DRAWER
VII.—MISS MEEKS
VIII.—MARY
IX.—THE STORM BREAKS
X.—MISS DRUETT
XI.—THE NEEDLE-CASE
XII.—THE TRUNKS
XIII.—THE OLD MEETING-HOUSE
XIV.—OLD JAEL
XV.—EVIL INFLUENCES
XVI.—THE FAIR
XVII.—MR. FABIAN CALLS AGAIN
XVIII.—MISS PRISCILLA
XIX.—MISS PRISCILLA MAKES CHANGES
XX.—AN EXPLOSION
THE OLD STANFIELD HOUSE.
——————
CHAPTER FIRST.
THE OLD HOUSE.
CALISTA STANFIELD stood at the gate of the old Stanfield place one
morning in the latter end of May, looking abroad over the fields.
The house stood on a little rise of ground such as in that part of
the world is dignified by the name of a hill. The foreground of the
picture on which she was looking was not very cheerful in itself, being
neither more nor less than an old family burying-ground, very full of
gravestones, and with one tall monument towering over all. Now an old
graveyard need not be a melancholy sight, provided that the grass be
kept green, the stones whole, and the enclosure free from ugly weeds.
That on which Calista was looking bore traces of utter neglect. Beyond
the graveyard spread fenced fields, some in pasture, others in the
carefully-marked squares which showed that they were meant for sweet
potatoes, or were tinted with the pale green blades of the springing
corn. Low-growing oaks, with here and there a large tree, closed is the
prospect.
Calista looked at the melancholy graveyard, and then turned and looked
at the house behind her—the old Stanfield place. The one prospect was
not more cheering than the other. The mansion had been a fine one,
built of small bricks brought from Europe, and with much ornamental
woodwork about it. It stood on a high stone basement, and had a flight
of solid gray marble steps rising from each side to a wide porch with
brick pillars, and quaint carving about the gable; but the woodwork
was gray for want of paint, and in some places falling for want of a
timely nail; the steps had sunk away, leaving a yawning chasm between
themselves and the floor of the porch; most of the shutters—solid
wooden shutters such as people affect in that part of the world—were
closed, and others hung by only one hinge. There had been a somewhat
pretentious garden at one side of the house, with ornamental
trellis-work and a summer-house once covered with climbing roses; but
the trellis leaned this way and that, the summer-house had partly
fallen in, and the beds were overgrown with grass and weeds.
When old General Stanfield was alive, nothing about the place, from
the grand house to the smallest chicken-coop, was ever suffered to get
out of repair. Then the house was filled with cheerful company from
one week's end to another. The second Mrs. Stanfield, like the first,
had only one child, a boy, who grew up mostly at home, sometimes under
the care of a tutor, sometimes running wild with rod and gun under the
charge of a man who had been his father's servant all through the war,
and who was still living in a little house which the General had built
and given him on the borders of his great estate.
By and by the young Richard went to Princeton, and managed, despite a
great deal of idleness and some foolish frolics, to scramble through
his college course without disgrace or expulsion, and even with some
degree of credit.
"Well, young Stanfield is fairly off our hands," remarked one of the
professors to the president on the evening of commencement. "I wonder
what he will turn out?"
"There are two things either of which may possibly make a man of him,"
replied the president. "And they are, to marry a sensible, energetic
woman, or to go into the army."
"Well, if marrying will save Stanfield, I am sure I hope he will
marry," said the professor; "for, much trouble as he has made me, I am
very fond of the boy."
As it happened, young Stanfield did marry and did go into the army,
yet neither of them made much of him. He went to the North on a visit,
and there married a pretty, poor girl, with no home of her own, and no
fortune save the very liberal outfit provided by the distant cousins
with whom she lived.
It had never occurred to Richard Stanfield that his father could be
seriously angry with him for anything he could do. He had been allowed
his own way, and plenty of money to carry out that way, ever since he
could remember, and if his father had ever been seriously displeased, a
little coaxing penitence from his graceful, handsome son had been all
that was needful to reconcile the indulgent father.
If Richard had taken his wife directly home, things might have turned
out very differently, for Calista was a sweet, gracious creature,
though timid and somewhat reserved.
Richard, however, was well pleased to stay where he was, and he wrote
to his father and waited for an answer, amusing himself meanwhile, as
he had done all his life, with whatever came to hand.
There was a power near the throne on which Richard had not calculated,
and which was in no wise friendly to him. Miss Priscilla Stanfield, the
General's daughter by his first wife, had at first been fond of the
pretty boy baby, and after his mother died, she had befriended him in
her fashion, till he began to interfere with the exercise of her ruling
passion. Richard loved to spend money—Miss Priscilla loved to save it;
and between the two there was a perpetual contest, sometimes open,
sometimes covert, but always more or less active. When Richard was at
home, his influence was usually uppermost with the General, who was not
very strong-minded at any time; but when Richard was away, his father
was wholly in the hands of Priscilla, who had her own ends to serve.
Priscilla persuaded her father that Richard had disgraced his family by
marrying, clandestinely, an obscure girl without family, education, or
money.
The consequence was that the General wrote a very harsh letter to his
son, forbidding him to bring home the young woman with whom he had so
disgracefully connected himself. If he chose to return without her,
he was at liberty to do so. The young woman could remain with her
friends, and a suitable allowance should be made her. If Richard chose
to comply with these terms, well and, good; if not, Mr. Settson, the
old lawyer in Cohansey, was authorized to pay to his order the sum of
three hundred dollars a year, which was all that he must expect from
his father.
"It is Priscilla's doing!" said Richard to his wife. "I see her hand
all through it. My father must be in his dotage. Does he take me for a
fool, or a villain?"
"Oh, Richard, we have done very wrong!" said poor Calista. "I never
guessed your father could take it in that way. I thought you wrote to
him. You said you would."
"Well, I meant to, but the time went on, and on the whole I thought it
as well to wait. I am sure I never guessed he would take it in such an
absurd way any more than yourself. And three hundred a year! It is just
nothing."
"I don't mind that so much," said Calista, to whose New England ideas
three hundred dollars seemed a much larger sum than it did to Richard;
"but it is so dreadful to think that your father is angry with you.
Perhaps if you were to go and see him—"
"I am not sure but it would be a good plan," said Richard,
thoughtfully. "If I could see him alone, I dare say I could bring him
round; but there is Priscilla."
"Perhaps you might, bring her round too."
"You don't know her, Calista. Priscilla used to be a pretty nice girl
when she was young, but she always loved money, and now I think she
cares for nothing else. If you had only been rich, she would have
thought it was all right."
"Still, if you were to go there," urged Calista. "I would stay here,
you know, till you came back; I might even take the school again."
"Take the school indeed! Don't let me hear of such a thing!"
The time came when Calista was only too glad to take the school again.
Richard fully intended to go home, see his father, and "make all
right," as he said; that is, get his own way, as he had done twenty
times before, by dint of coaxing. But several things happened to
prevent him. He had a slight accident while riding, which lamed him
for two or three weeks; then Calista was very unwell, and he could not
think of leaving her; and then winter set in, and he persuaded himself
it would be as well to wait till spring.
Meantime the war of 1812 broke out. The war fever ran very high in that
part of the country. Richard fell in with it, as he did with everything
that was going. He raised a company by his own exertions, and took
command of it. He was soon ordered west, and bade a tender farewell
to his wife, whom he commended, in an earnest and dutiful letter, to
his father's care and affection. At Calista's earnest request, he also
wrote a kind letter to his sister, and enclosed both in one envelope.
Whether these letters reached their destination, Richard never knew.
His company was engaged in the disastrous affair of the river Raisin,
and not a man escaped the horrible massacre which followed.
His little girl, born three months after her father's death, was
motherless as well as fatherless when she was five years old. The old
couple who had stood in the place of parents to Calista Folsom were
both dead, and her poor child, with no near friends, was left on the
hands of distant cousins, who had, or thought they had, enough to do to
take care of their own families. What was to be done?
"I am just going to write to her father's family," said Mrs. Tom
Folsom, at whose house poor Mrs. Richard Stanfield died. "I would like
to keep the child myself, for she is a dear little thing as ever I saw,
but I seem to have my hands full already."
"I suppose we might all say that," said Mrs. John Folsom. "But what is
our Christianity worth, my dear Sophronia, if it does not lead us to
the exercise of practical self-denial?"
"Self-denial—humph!" retorted Mrs. Tom. "Don't talk to me about
self-denial, Amanda. The difference in price between your winter
set-out and mine would keep the child a year."
Mrs. John kept her temper, at least so far as words were concerned.
"You forget that I had Calista on my hands for two years before she was
married," said she.
"During which time she did all the sewing and spinning of the family,
besides keeping school three terms!" retorted Mrs. Tom. "I don't think
you can lay claim to much self-denial on that score."
"Don't let us make the dear child a source of discord and contention,"
said Miss Malvina Fitch; an elderly lady who lived by herself on a
very small income, which she eked out by spinning, braiding hats, and
other means. "Let Sophronia write to poor dear Richard's family, as she
proposed, and if nothing comes of it, we will see what can be done."
"If nothing comes of it, the child will have to come on the town for
support, so far as I see," said Mrs. John, decidedly.
"She won't do that while I have a roof over my head and half a loaf
to share with her," said old Miss Malvina, with more warmth than was
common with her. "Dear Calista's child shall never be a town charge if
I can help it."
"Well, you needn't flare out so!" said Mrs. John. "I only mentioned it."
"Yes, and you ought to blush even to mention such a thing!" said Mrs.
Tom. "Poor as I am, with my sick husband and helpless boy, I would work
my fingers to the bone before it should happen. Our own relation, and a
soldier's child besides, and you sit there in your satin and fine cloth
and talk of sending her to the poor-house."
"Oh, very well, manage the matter your own way," said Mrs. John, rising
with a lofty air of composure. "I wash my hands of the whole matter; so
don't expect anything from me."
"As though any one did expect anything of you," said Mrs. Tom, as she
closed the door, not very gently, after her. "Well, then, I'll write to
this General Stanfield; though I haven't much hope of anything coming
of it; and in the meantime—"
"In the meantime I will keep Calista," said Miss Malvina. "There is no
one at my house to be disturbed by her noise, and what is enough for
one must stretch for two."
"Oh, I'll help you all I can, and so I am sure will Samuel; and I dare
say John too, if he can do it without his wife's knowledge. I shall be
very glad if you can have her with you, for it is bad for the child's
disposition to be hushed up every minute, and poor Tom can't bear a bit
of noise when his bad spells are on."
The letter was written and sent, and it seemed for a time as if nothing
was likely to come of it. Calista staid with Miss Malvina all winter,
learning to read and sew, and sharing the old lady's simple fare, eked
out by contributions from the cousins, and a sly dollar bill now and
then from Cousin John. When the child looked back on this winter from
her after life, it seemed to her that no fires were ever so bright and
warm as Miss Malvina's; no bread so sweet and so thickly buttered;
no, cake so delicious as the Sunday's treat of gingerbread, and that
Indian loaf (unknown, alas! to this generation) which came hot, red
and glutinous from the oven where it had staid simmering ever since
the Saturday before. In truth, the seasoning which made all Miss
Malvina's plain and economical cooking so grateful—the genuine love and
generosity—came to be sadly wanting afterward.
With the spring, however, came a change. A middle-aged gentlewoman
appeared one day in the little town, charged with letters and
credentials from Miss Priscilla Stanfield, daughter and sole heir of
General Stanfield, of Cohansey, and empowered to take possession of the
child Calista Stanfield, and carry her home to her aunt. It appeared
from the letters brought by Miss Druett that she was the companion and
confidential friend of Miss Stanfield.
"Then General Stanfield did not leave his son's wife anything?" said
Mrs. Tom.
"Nothing whatever," answered Miss Druett, concisely.
"Nor to the child?"
"I do not know that he was even aware of the child's existence," said
Miss Druett.
"Somebody was very much to blame if he was not!" said sharp-spoken Mrs.
Tom. "For Calista wrote to him and to Miss Priscilla when the child was
born. I know, because I posted the letters myself."
"The mails are somewhat uncertain," said Miss Druett; "but however
that may be, the General's whole property was left to his daughter
Priscilla. Miss Stanfield wishes it understood that she does not allow
the child to have any claim on her. She is willing to take her and give
her an education befitting her father's family, but it is entirely an
act of charity on her part."
"I would not let the child go if things were different with me," said
Miss Malvina to Mrs. Tom when the matter was talked over afterward;
"but I know I have not many months to live, and if this Miss Stanfield
gives Calista such an education as she promises, the girl can earn her
own living."
"And Calista may come into all the property at last; who knows?"
"She most probably will," said Mrs. John, who was assisting at the
conference. "But what are you going to do with her mother's things,
Malvina? There are all the handsome dresses and other clothes that
Father and Mother Folsom bought for her, and the presents her husband
made to her afterward. They must be as good as new. What are you going
to do with them?"
"That matter is already settled," said Miss Malvina, calmly. "I have
turned the trunks which held poor Calista's wardrobe and other property
over to Miss Druett for the use of the child. Sophronia and I looked
them over, and repacked them with abundance of cedar and black pepper,
and locked them up again. Of course they belong to the child; and as
Miss Stanfield assumes the care and education of the orphan, she is the
fit custodian of all that appertains to her in right of her deceased
parent."
And Miss Malvina was a little soothed, in the midst of her grief, by
thinking how neatly she had turned her long sentence.
"Oh!" said Mrs. John, significantly, and rising at the same time. "I
am sure the child is quite welcome to all that is left of her poor
mother's things. At the same time, I must say I think I might have been
consulted, if only for form's sake."
"You forget that you said you washed your hands of the whole concern,"
said Mrs. Tom.
"Oh, very well. I don't grudge you anything you have made of the
transaction. Good-morning." And Mrs. John sailed away, resolved to
keep a sharp look-out on Mrs. Tom's "go to meeting" clothes, so as to
challenge any article of Calista's wardrobe on its first appearance.
She was disappointed, however.
Mrs. Tom's temper was sharpened as well as her wits by hard encounters
with adverse fortune, but, poor as she was, she would have scorned to
enrich herself at the expense of an orphan child. As to Miss Malvina,
she was so near heaven already that the richest things on earth and the
poorest looked equally small in her eyes.
To the little Calista, the parting with her kind old guardian and
the long journey seemed like a dreary dream, from which she woke to
find herself an inmate of the old Stanfield house, creeping about by
herself, with no mates but the animals in the farmyard, slighted and
snubbed by her aunt, treated with a sort of surly kindness by Miss
Druett, her aunt's companion and confidante, and sometimes petted and
sometimes scolded by the two old servants whom Miss Stanfield still
retained.
Sometimes it seemed to her that her present life was a dream, and that
she should wake up to find herself in Miss Malvina's little bed-room,
under that red-and-white coverlet wrought in gorgeous patterns of
long-tailed birds pecking at berries, which she used to follow out
with her little fingers. Sometimes the past grew dream-like, and she
thought she must always have lived is the old house, saying lessons
to Miss Druett and watching the two elderly ladies playing endless
games—cribbage one evening, backgammon the next—or slipping out to the
kitchen, when, if Chloe were in a good humor, she would contrive some
kind of treat for the child, and tell her stories of the past glories
of the family, and of her handsome father when he was a boy.
Under such influences Calista had grown up to the age of fifteen. About
that time she left off saying her lessons to Miss Druett, and began
going to an old-fashioned ladies' school in Cohansey, the chief town in
the neighborhood. In pleasant weather she walked; when it was wet or
stormy, she rode an elderly white pony named Jeff, or sometimes drove
him in a little old chaise which Miss Priscilla had taken on a debt.
Calista believed she owed this change to Miss Druett, and was grateful
to that lady accordingly. She liked her school and her lessons, she was
friendly with the girls, and she had made one intimate friend in the
person of Mary Settson. Then, too, she had now and then an errand to
do for her aunt, and she often had a kind word and sometimes a little
present from old Mr. Settson, the lawyer, who had had charge of General
Stanfield's business, and took an interest in poor Richard's child.
CHAPTER SECOND.
SCHOOL.
CALISTA had not been religiously brought up. True, she attended church
once every Sunday with Miss Druett, sitting in the family pew in the
old brick church in Cohansey. At home the subject was never even
mentioned. Miss Priscilla never went to church, never read the Bible or
had family prayers, or asked a blessing at table, or acknowledged God
in any of her ways.
Calista had found a ragged old Bible among some waste papers in the
garret, and sometimes read it for the stories when she was tired
of "Evelina" and the few odd volumes of "Camilla" and "Sir Charles
Grandison" of which she had become possessed in the same way. These
readings, the Sunday services, the prayers in school, and some faint
remembrance of Miss Malvina's teaching, kept the girl from utter
heathenism. Of personal religion, of any obligation on her own part to
a God or a Saviour, it is hardly an exaggeration to say Calista had no
more notion than her old white pony.
She had a kind of attachment to Miss Druett, tempered by a good deal
of fear. She had begun by dreading Aunt Priscilla, and ended, I fear,
by hating her; but she was not naturally unamiable, and, as Miss
McPherson, the schoolmistress, observed, she had the making or marring
of a fine woman in her.
"Calista!" called a somewhat harsh yet not altogether unpleasant voice,
with then a musical ring in it as of some neglected instrument. Then in
a moment—"Calista, do you mean to stand dreaming there all day? It is
time you were getting ready for school."
"Yes, Miss Druett," replied Calista, promptly; "I am all ready, and
there is plenty of time. Where are you going?" she asked, in surprise,
as Miss Druett appeared in the door with her bonnet on.
"I am going to drive into town with you, so don't keep me waiting,
child."
Calista skipped lightly up the ruined steps, which looked dangerous for
anything heavier than a goat to climb. As she reached the broad flat
stone at the top, it tilted a little under her tread.
"Take care!" said Miss Druett.
"That stone will fall with somebody one of these days," said Calista.
"Why doesn't Aunt Priscilla have it mended?"
"Little girls shouldn't ask questions," replied Miss Druett.
"I am not a little girl any longer!" said Calista, her color rising a
little. "I wish I were, and then my frocks would not all be so outgrown
that I am ashamed of them."
Miss Druett deigned no answer to this remark, but Calista was used to
having her remarks remain unanswered. She hastened away, and presently
returned equipped in her school bonnet of gray batist a good deal
the worse for wear, and carrying in one hand her school books and in
the other a work-bag—every one carried a work-bag in those days—with
the ends of knitting needles sticking out. It would be hard to find
a handsomer girl in all Cohansey than Calista Stanfield, but she
certainly owed very little to her dress.
"Where is Aunt Priscilla?" asked Calista, as she took her place in the
queer shaky little chaise where Miss Druett was already sitting.
"In her room," was the reply. "She is out of sorts this morning, or she
would have gone to town herself."
Calista said no more till they were out of sight of the house. Then she
began again.
"Miss Druett, I do wish I could have some new frocks this spring. My
best frock, that blue bombazette, is ever so much too short, and mended
in three or four places. I declare I am ashamed to be seen; there is
not a servant girl in Cohansey who goes as shabby as I do."
Miss Druett seemed to be fully occupied in driving a fly off the pony's
back, and did not answer a word.
"Then my Sunday bonnet is a perfect fright. It is three years old,
and not the least like what any one else wears. And it is just so in
everything," continued Calista, with growing heat as she recounted her
wrongs. "I can never have a bit of pretty work like the other girls, or
have a bit of pocket-money, or any privileges as the rest do. I think
it is too bad."
"What do you expect me to do about it?" asked Miss Druett.
"If aunt were as poor as Miss Malvina used to be, and had to work for
a living, I would never say a word," continued Calista. "I would work
hard, too, and earn my own clothes; but when she is so rich and laying
up money all the time, I do think it is a very hard case."
"How do you know your aunt is laying up money all the time?"
"Because it is always coming in and never going out," was the prompt
reply. "Don't you think I have eyes and ears, Miss Druett? Don't I know
that she gets the rents for her buildings in Philadelphia and Cohansey,
and for the farms she lets out, and the butter and hay, and so on? What
becomes of all that, if she does not lay it up?"
"You had better ask her," rejoined Miss Druett. "And if you think the
servant girls are so much better off than yourself, you had better try
living out, and see how you like it."
Calista's eyes flashed. "I declare I will!" said she, with sudden fire
and emphasis. "I will go to Mr. Settson this very day and ask him to
find me a place where I can work for my board and enough to clothe me.
At least I should have enough to eat, and not be taunted and insulted
every hour as I am now."
Miss Druett turned her head and looked at Calista, who met the gaze
without flinching. She seemed to think matters had gone far enough.
"Come, come, don't let me hear any such nonsense as that!" said she.
"If I should tell Priscilla she would turn you out of the house, and
never let you into it again."
"Let her!" returned Calista. "I haven't had such very nice times there
that I should regret it very much."
"Suppose your aunt had never taken you at all, do you know where you
would have been? You would have gone to the poor-house."
"Well, suppose I had, what worse should I have been? I should have had
enough to eat and something to wear, and what more do I have now?"
"You have your school for one thing."
"Yes, I know I do, thanks to you. You are good to me—sometimes."
Miss Druett smiled in a curious, sudden fashion, with flash of white
teeth and a light in her dark gray eyes under black brows and lashes,
which gave quite a new aspect to her face.
"Then if I am good to you—sometimes—have a little patience for the sake
of those times," said she. "Don't you think I would do more for you if
I could? As for the frocks, I know you need them, and I will see what
I can bring to pass; but don't you say a word about them to your aunt.
She is in one of her bad moods to-day. Here we are, I declare. Where
will you stop?"
"Oh, at the school-house. I suppose I must walk home. I don't mind
though; it will be cool and pleasant after five o'clock."
It wanted half an hour of school time, but Calista found Miss
McPherson's school-room filled with girls all talking together, as it
seemed. As she entered somebody said, laughing,—
"Catch her giving anything. You might as well ask old Miss Stanfield
herself."
"Hush," said two or three voices, and Calista felt sure they had been
talking of her.
"Here is Calista," said one of the girls. "How early you are! Did you
walk?"
"No, I rode in with Miss Druett. What are you all talking about?"
"Oh, about this new plan for furnishing the parsonage house. Haven't
you heard?"
"Not a word. How should I?"
"Of course she hasn't," said Belle Adair. "Well, you know Mr. and Mrs.
Lee lost all their furniture when the old parsonage was burned."
"Yes, of course. Every one knows that."
"Well, the ladies of the congregation are going to furnish the new
parsonage from top to bottom with linen and everything needful, and
the young ladies—Miss Jessy McPherson and Miss Alice Settson and that
set—are going to hold a fair to buy some of the bed-room furniture."
"A fair!" repeated Calista. "What kind of a fair? I don't know what you
mean."
"Why, a kind of sale, like the one Miss Jessy attended in Philadelphia,
for the orphans. Don't you remember that she told us about it?"
"Oh, yes! Well, what then?"
"Well, the young ladies are going to have one, and they have asked us
school-girls to make things for one of the tables. Miss Jessy is to
have it in charge, and two or three of us are to help her. And we are
to make all sorts of pretty and useful things for sale, and find the
materials ourselves. And I know what I am going to make, but I don't
mean to tell anybody—not yet."
All this explanation Belle delivered with great animation and a vast
amount of gesticulation, as her fashion was.
"You will have to tell, if we meet together for work," observed one of
the girls. "And you know that was what we proposed—to meet with Miss
Jessy, Wednesday afternoon of each week."
"To be sure, so we did. I did not think of that, but it don't matter."
"I think the meeting will be half the fun, don't you, Calista?" said
little Emma Adair, Belle's cousin.
But Calista was looking for something in her desk, and did not answer.
"I think it is very nice—all of it—only I don't see how I am to do
anything, because I have no money," said Theresa Diaments. "Somehow my
allowance is always gone before I know it."
"Because you spend it all," returned her cousin, Antoinette, who roomed
with her. "You never go out without buying something—pins, or thread,
or pencils. You buy ten bunches of hairpins to my one."
"Oh, yes! I dare say," remarked Belle, sarcastically enough. "We all
know how economical you are. Perhaps if you bought more pins, poor
Tessy would not need to buy so many."
Antoinette colored deeply, and cast anything but an amiable glance at
the last speaker.
"What will you do, Calista?" asked Belle.
"How can I tell?" returned Calista. "I don't half understand the matter
yet. You are always in such a hurry, Belle. Where is Mary Settson?"
"Here she comes,—
"'Sober, steadfast and demure,'—
"As usual," said Belle. "What are you going to make for the fair, Mary?"
"I haven't said I was going to make anything," replied Mary, looking
annoyed, for she was not pleased with Belle's quotation. "Come out a
minute, Calista; I want to tell you something. Oh, here comes Miss
McPherson to open school! Girls, what are you about? Don't you see?"
All the girls rose—some of them in a little confusion—to greet
their schoolmistress. Miss McPherson was a tall Scotch lady, with
silvery-white hair put up under a matronly sort of lace cap, bright
eyes, and a somewhat commanding presence. She was handsomely dressed,
as usual, in her rich black silk and white muslin handkerchief, with a
large gold watch in her belt, to which were attached a bunch of seals
and a thick gold chain of Indian workmanship. This was her invariable
costume, except that in winter she wore a soft gray shawl. She was
followed by her niece, Miss Jessy McPherson, a slim lady, not quite so
young as she had been, but still pretty and blooming, and dressed with
much more regard to the fashion than her aunt. Another teacher entered
by the opposite door, and the three took their places on the platform
at one end of the room. Miss Jessy read part of a chapter in the New
Testament, Miss McPherson made a short prayer, and then the lessons
were begun.
Miss McPherson had been educated at one of the best schools in
Edinburgh, and finished at a Scotch convent in Paris. She had come
to America with her father at the close of the revolution. Captain
McPherson sold out his commission in the army and bought land in New
Jersey, hoping to make an estate for his daughter; but his farming was
not very successful, and he soon died. Miss McPherson, as soon as the
first desolation of her loss was over, began to look about her to see
what she was to do.
She was not long in deciding. She sold the land which she could not
cultivate, bought a house in the growing town of Cohansey, and set up
a ladies' school. She taught French and Italian thoroughly—though, it
must be owned, with something of a Scotch accent—needle work, plain
and ornamental, flower work, feather work, and numberless other works.
She also taught the then popular art of reading, writing and spelling
the English language correctly by the aid of Mr. Lindley Murray's
"Grammar," * and some geography and history by the aid of Mr. Pinnock's
"Catechisms." She also taught—and that without extra charge—very
excellent manners and sound religion and morality, so that her school
might be considered a good one, though metaphysics formed no part of
its course, and even such an elementary and old-fashioned book as "Mrs.
B.'s Conversations on Chemistry" had never entered its walls.
* I have seen an old school prospectus in which was advertised "The
English grammar taught by Mr. Lindley Murray's new method, with three
cases only."
Miss McPherson prospered, or, as she would have preferred to say, "was
prospered," from the first. She was soon enabled to enlarge her house,
take a few boarders, and send for her orphan niece, Miss Jessy, who was
earning a hard living as a governess in the north of England.
At the time of which I am writing, Miss McPherson had twelve young lady
boarders and twenty-five day scholars, and was believed to be a rich
woman. She was greatly respected in the community, and was one of the
first persons consulted in any charitable or social enterprise. She
subscribed liberally to the church, where her young ladies occupied
three pews all to themselves. She had been one of the first to propose
the building of the new parsonage house, and had given a good sum
towards it; and she was indeed a very important person in Cohansey
society.
When the lessons were through, she tapped on her desk for attention.
"Now, young ladies, I want you to listen to me!" said she, in her
clear, round tones. "Maria Reese, where are your hands and feet?"
Maria's hands and feet had a way of being in the wrong place, and on
this occasion the hands were behind her back, and one foot was twisted
round the leg of her chair. Blushing scarlet, she laid her hands in her
lap, straightened up her shoulders, and drew in her chin.
"That is much better!" said Miss McPherson. She cast a vigilant eye
over the room, and, seeing nothing more to criticise, proceeded with
her remarks.
"No doubt you have all been discussing this plan of a fair or sale to
help in furnishing the house of our respected minister."
She paused a moment, and Clarissa Whitecar, as the oldest girl,
answered for the rest,—
"Yes, ma'am."
"Very well. I cannot say," continued Miss McPherson, "that the scheme
is one which I should have proposed myself. I prefer more direct ways
of accomplishing good works. However, I am aware that something is
to be said on the other side. Such a method as the present promotes
sociability, and it also affords an opportunity for those have not much
money to bestow, to give their time and their work,—it makes room for
self-denial, without which no good work is ever accomplished, and also
for the exercise of latent neatness and ingenuity. I have considered
the matter, and have also consulted with some of the respected parents
and guardians of my pupils," continued Miss McPherson, after another
little pause; "and I have come to the conclusion—Charity Latch, are you
a lady or a pincushion?"
The young person thus addressed, a tall, overgrown-looking girl,
started violently, and hastily removed from her mouth the brass pin
with which she was furtively picking her teeth. Charity was one of
those people who never see any deficiency in themselves, and therefore
never improve.
"I said that I have come to the conclusion to allow the young ladies to
devote the hours of afternoon school on Wednesday to working for this
object, under certain rules and restrictions, which must be remembered,
as I shall allow no departure from them.
"First. Every young lady must provide her own working implements.
"Second. Every piece of work must be commenced subject to the approval
of myself or Miss Jessy, who will preside in my absence.
"Third. Every piece of work once commenced must be perfectly finished
before anything else is begun. This rule is invariable.
"Fourth. Any young lady must be ready to do her work over again,
cheerfully and without complaint, if Miss Jessy or myself thinks it
needful.
"Fifth. There must be no borrowing from one another without special
consent of your teacher for the time being.
"These are all the rules I see fit to make, though I shall not hesitate
to add others if I see occasion; but I wish to add a word of advice.
Remember that in such a work as this, and done, as this ought to be,
for the praise and glory of God, there is no place for anything like
emulation or vainglory. Let each do the best she can in whatever she
undertakes, and remember that the smallest and cheapest offering given
in the right spirit is as acceptable as the most elaborate and costly
in the eyes of Him for whom this work is, or should be, done."
Miss McPherson said these words with great earnestness, and smiled as
she saw their effect in the suddenly raised eyes and brightened face of
a plain and rather poorly-dressed girl who sat near the desk.
"And now the young ladies may take a recess,—" recess she called it, in
her Scotch way,—"unless they have any questions to ask."
"If you please, Miss McPherson," said Mary Settson, rising—
"Well, Mary—take time now and consider your words."
"Suppose one of us wishes to make something for the furnishing of the
house instead of something for the sale, can we do so?"
"Can she do so?" corrected the schoolmistress. "Let your pronouns
agree with their antecedents, my love. Yes, certainly, there can be no
objection to that."
"Do you think it would be better to make fancy articles or useful
things?" asked another girl.
"I should say a judicious mixture would be best, and in any case it
would be well to avoid making your articles too costly. You can settle
all these matters in your first meeting, which will take place on
Wednesday at the usual time of afternoon school. I must add one thing:
If I find these meetings are having an unfavorable effect on your
lessons, or tending to produce heart-burning, envy, or unkindness, I
shall stop the whole thing at once. You can now take your recess, which
will be ten minutes longer than usual."
CHAPTER THIRD.
AUNT BETSY.
THE girls were soon in the spacious play-ground, but to-day neither
skipping-rope nor battle-door had attractions for any but the younger
children. Every tongue was busy with the new plan, which was talked
over in all its bearings. Pincushions and needle work, satin stitch and
cross stitch, rug work, cut work, flowers, veils, ruffles, knitting,
and netting, all were discussed at once.
"I shall work a piece," said Antoinette, with decision. "I saw a lovely
one at my cousin's, in Greenwich—a shepherdess, with her crook, and
some sheep and lambs, with their wool all done in French knots with
white chenille and gray floss. The shepherdess has on a blue silk gown
with real gold spangles. Oh, it is lovely!"
"Yes, and so sweetly natural—a blue silk spangled gown to tend sheep
in!" said Belle Adair. "I wonder they did not spangle the sheep too: it
would have been about as sensible."
"Just as if that had anything to do with it!" rejoined Antoinette,
scornfully. "Any how, I am going to do it—if Miss Jessy will let me, I
mean."
"But that will take so long, and be so expensive," remarked Tessy; "and
if it should not sell after all, you will lose your labor."
"No, I sha'n't, because I should have the picture anyhow, and as for
money, I have all my last quarter's allowance."
"Then you can pay me the three shillings you borrowed of me the last
time the peddler was here," said Tessy. "I want some money, and I
haven't a bit."
"I haven't any change," returned Antoinette, "and I don't want to break
a bill for such a little thing as that."
"You never do have any change, do you, Antoinette?" asked Belle Adair,
innocently. Then, as Antoinette did not answer: "If I were you, Tessy,
I wouldn't have any change either."
"Well, she does get all my change away," said poor Tessy, half crying,
as Antoinette walked away. "She is always saying, 'Oh, Tessy, just lend
me a penny,' or 'Just let me have a sixpence, will you?' But if I ask
her for anything, she never has it. It is just so with other things.
She uses my pins, and needles, and hairpins, so that half the time I
don't have any for myself, and then Miss Meeks scolds me, and says,
'Look at Antoinette, she is never unprovided.' Good reason why she
isn't."
"You must just learn to say no," said Belle Adair.
"But it seems so mean to refuse such little things."
"It is not so mean to refuse as it is to be sponging for little
things," returned Belle, with some justice; "and that is what
Antoinette is always doing. The other day, when she began her bead
chain, she came to me to know if I had any thread. I told her I had,
but did not offer to lend her any. Then she asked me for it straight
out, and I told her I wanted my thread myself, and that Miss Jessy had
plenty."
"But you gave me a whole nice skein that very day," observed little
Emma.
"Yes, because I knew you would pay me, and I did not want you to get
into disgrace for forgetting. You are not a sponge, though you are a
heedless little puss, and want your ears pinched every day," and Belle
suited the action to the word by administering a gentle pinch to the
little rosy ear.
"If she would only ask, I wouldn't care so much," said Tessy, "but she
just helps herself to anything of mine she wants."
"Well, I know what I would do if I were you," said Emma. "I wouldn't
have any money."
"What do you mean, Emma?" asked Tessy.
"Why, Miss McPherson gives you your allowance every month, doesn't she?"
"Yes, of course."
"Well, I would ask her to keep it for me, and just go to her when I
wanted any money to use. Then when Antoinette wants to borrow, you can
tell her the truth, that you haven't any. Besides, you won't be nearly
so apt to spend money if you have to ask Miss McPherson every time; and
you know, Tessy, you are rather extravagant," concluded Emma, with a
quaint little air of wisdom.
"But perhaps Miss McPherson won't want to be troubled," objected Tessy.
"She won't mind, if you tell her the reason why. Of course you need not
mention Antoinette, but you can just say that you know you are apt to
throw away your money, and you want to save it for a special purpose."
"What a wise young woman—'a Daniel come to judgment!'" said Belle, who
had been reading Shakespeare.
"But really, Tessy, I think this plan an excellent one. Antoinette
should not be indulged in such ways, if only for her own sake. If she
were poor, it would be different, but I imagine her father is quite as
rich as yours."
"Yes, indeed. Well, Emma, I believe I will try this plan of yours. But
what shall I do in the mean time? I thought I would knit some curtains,
but I haven't even money to buy the cotton."
"You say Antoinette owes you three shillings?"
"She owes me four and sixpence in all."
"Trust to me, Tessy. I'll get it out of her. She is a little too bad."
Meantime Calista and her friend, Mary Settson, were walking up and down
under the trees at one side of the play-ground. Calista's black brows
were frowning, and she looked vexed and mortified.
"I wish I had never come to school at all," said she, vehemently.
"Something is always coming up to make we feel what a miserable,
dependent wretch I am."
"Don't use such words, Calista," said Mary.
"They are true words, and why shouldn't I use them?"
"But don't you believe your aunt will let you do anything? I should
think she would give you a little money if you ask her in the right
time and way."
"Much you know about it. I tell you, Mary, I might just as well expect
gold to rain down out of that cloud. The cloud will give me a wetting
when I go home, and Aunt Priscilla will give me a scolding, and that is
all I shall get from either of them."
"Oh, I forgot," said Mary. "Papa asked Miss Druett to let you stay all
night with us, and she said you might. So we will have a good time, and
I will teach you to knit the feather stitch that Miss Jessy showed me."
Calista's frown relaxed a little. "Your father is very kind, I am sure;
but, Mary, I declare I am ashamed to go."
"Why?"
"My frock is so shabby for one thing, and you and Miss Alice are always
so neat."
"Nonsense!"
"And besides, you are always inviting me, and I never can ask you."
"Nonsense!" said Mary again. "Just as if we did not know how things
were. I am glad, because I think perhaps papa will contrive some way to
help us out of this scrape."
Calista shook her head. "You don't know Aunt Priscilla as I do. Why,
Mary, grandfather's monument is actually falling down for want of a
little money laid out in repairs. I haven't much reason to be obliged
to General Stanfield," continued Calista, rather as if thinking aloud,
"but I believe the very first thing I do when I have the place will be
to put that graveyard in order."
Mary looked annoyed in her turn.
"I would not think so much about that if I were you, Calista," said
she. "You are not sure that the place will ever be yours. Miss
Priscilla can leave it to whom she pleases, you know."
"What would you think about it if you were in my place?" demanded
Calista, rather fiercely. "Come, Mary, tell me something agreeable in
my affairs to think about."
"Well, here is the school and Miss McPherson."
"Miss McPherson is just as good and kind as she can be," admitted
Calista, "and the school is pleasant, and I like my lessons; but even
here Aunt Priscilla annoys me all the time. Something is forever coming
up to remind me how dependent and helpless I am. Aunt Priscilla won't
let me have a bit of fancy work, or take music lessons, or have a penny
to spend on any of the girls' little frolics."
"Was that the reason you did not go to the gipsy party?"
"Of course it was. I had nothing to carry."
"But, Calista, you know—"
"Oh, yes, I know. Miss Alice would have made something for me, but I
wouldn't have that. I may be a pauper, but I won't be a beggar and a
sponge like—some folks," casting a glance, as she spoke, at Antoinette,
who was passing.
"Well, any how, Calista, you can make the most of what lessons you
have, and when you are a little older you can find a place as teacher
somewhere and support yourself. And, besides," said Mary, lowering
her voice a little, "you might have something else if you would. You
might be looking forward to an inheritance that would never fade nor
disappoint you."
Calista made an impatient movement.
"So you say, and I believe you really think so, but all that is nothing
to me. It has no reality in it to my mind. Aunt Priscilla does not
believe in any such thing. She believes in the French philosophers, and
Voltaire and Rousseau are about the only authors she reads."
"And you have a great respect for Miss Priscilla's opinion, of course,"
returned Mary, with a little touch of sarcasm. "It is quite natural you
should be governed by it."
Calista laughed. "It would be a reason for thinking the other way if I
wanted one, which I don't. But somehow religion has no reality for me.
I wouldn't have Miss McPherson hear me say so, but it is no more real
to me than the Greek mythology in Magnall's questions."
"I suppose that is the way with a good many people, if they had the
honesty to own it," remarked Mary, thoughtfully; "at least to judge by
their actions. But now tell me, Calista, are not all your best friends
Christians? I have often heard you speak of Miss Malvina; was not she a
Christian?"
"Yes, indeed she was, dear old soul!"
"And is not Miss McPherson one, and Miss Jessy, and my father, and
Alice?"
"Very true, my dear, not to mention yourself. As to Miss Druett, if any
one can tell what she is, they must be wiser than I am."
"Miss Druett is good to you, isn't she?"
"Yes, in a kind of way. She is so sharp and sarcastic that she puts
me in a rage ten times a week; but everything good that I get comes
through her."
"Well, wouldn't she do something for you in this matter?"
"Very likely she would if she could, but she can't. I told her this
morning that I wanted some new frocks, and she said she would get me
some if possible, but that I must not speak to Aunt Priscilla about it.
I tell you, Mary, you have no idea what she is in one of her bad moods.
It is like living with a wild animal or an evil spirit."
"The more reason why you should qualify yourself to earn your own
living as soon as possible. But there is the bell. By the way, will you
go to Aunt Hannah's with me after school? I have to carry her a message
about the towels she is weaving for Alice."
Aunt Hannah Parvin and her sister, Aunt Betsy, lived in a curious old
wooden house on the outskirts of the town.
"Come in, come in," said Aunt Betsy. "I suppose, Mary, thee has come
about the yarn; and who is this with thee? I ought to know her, but I
can't call her by name."
"Surely it is Richard Stanfield's daughter," said Aunt Hannah,
appearing at the door. "I never saw a greater likeness between a father
and child. Come in, children. I have been expecting thee, Mary."