most staid and precise in her appearance. Her plain gray gown, made in
the simplest fashion, was without a wrinkle; her muslin handkerchief
and close cap white as snow. She was very pretty with the exquisite
delicacy of complexion which "Friends" are so apt to possess and
preserve—thanks to their shady, sensible headgear. Her hair, with still
a golden shine in it here and there, lay in satin-like bands over her
serene forehead, and her large gray eyes looked like the very abode of
peace.
Aunt Betsy's hair, on the contrary, would wave, and crinkle, and break
away into rebellious little curls round her face and under her cap; her
dress, though spotlessly clean, was worn with quite a different air
from her sister's, and her complexion showed traces of free exposure to
the sun.
"Sister Betsy, how thee is burned with the sun!" said Aunt Hannah, in a
tone of mild reproof. "Why won't thee keep thy sunbonnet on?"
"Because I can't see as well with it, Sister Hannah, and, besides, I
like to feel the sun. What does it matter for an old woman like me?"
Aunt Hannah sighed gently. "Well, Betsy, thee will always be thyself to
the end."
"Would thee want me to be any one else, Hannah?"
Aunt Hannah smiled, and turned to the girls.
"I suppose, Mary, thee has come about the towels. Has Alice decided
upon the pattern?"
"No, Aunt Hannah; she told me to say she would leave it to you, and
then she should be sure to like it."
"Very well. I will bring down all my patterns for you both to look at,
and meantime my sister will find you some refreshments."
"To be sure," said the elder lady. "I had a notion thee would come
to-day, Mary, and so I baked a sweet-potato pie and some gingerbread.
Just sit down and take your bonnets off. Oh, yes, of course you will
stay to tea. Alice won't mind, Mary. She knows I always keep thee to
tea."
The girls suffered themselves to be persuaded, and laying aside their
bonnets, they sat down by the open window, while Aunt Betsy set her
table and brought out her beautiful old china—a set of thin "blue and
white," which would set any modern "Ceramical Club" into a fever of
rapture.
"What pretty china!" said Calista, admiring the egg-shell cups and the
sugar-basin with its gilt pineapples.
"Why, thy folks have some just like it, or ought to have," said
Aunt Betsy. "I remember thy mother—I mean thy grandmother—bought a
set in Philadelphia the very day I bought this. Dear, dear! What a
pretty creature she was, and how the old General doted on her and her
curly-headed boy! Poor Richard!"
"You knew my father then," said Calista, much interested.
"Oh, yes. I knew all thy family. Thy grandma used often to come and
see me and bring thy father, when he was a little boy. She had him in
very good order too, but after she was gone, thy grandfather never
controlled him. Hannah often used to tell the old gentleman he was
wrong to indulge the child so. I well remember the very last time the
General was here. He had stopped one day some weeks before and spoken
about Richard, how he had disappointed him; and says Hannah—thee sees
she is never afraid to say what she thinks right—says she,—
"'Richard Stanfield, is thee going to cast off thy son because he is
what thy indulgence has made him? Where is the justice of that?'
"'There is something in what you say, Hannah,' said he. 'I'll just
think it over.'
"Some three or four weeks after, he was just coming home from a
journey, and he stopped again, and says he,—
"'Well, Hannah, I have done justice to poor Dick, I think. I have
altered my will, and left the old place to him, and to his children if
he has any.'"
"Then grandfather did leave the place to my father after all!" said
Calista, her eyes flashing and her color changing, as it was apt to do
under any excitement.
"He certainly said so—I am quite sure of that," said Aunt Betsy. "I
suppose he must have altered his will again, or Miss Priscilla would
not have come into everything. Sometimes I have thought maybe she only
has the care of the place till thee comes of age. Thee never heard thy
father say anything about it I suppose, Mary?"
"No," replied Mary. "Only he said once, he hoped Calista would make the
most of her schooling, so as to be independent by and by."
"Yes, but that might have meant that he wished her to be able to look
after her own property," argued Aunt Betsy. "I suppose Priscilla never
tells thee anything about it, Calista."
"Not she!" answered Calista. "She never speaks to me at all if she can
help it."
"Priscilla is peculiar—she always was; but no doubt she means to do
right, though she always did sit too close to the world," observed
Aunt Hannah, who had come down just in time to hear the end of the
conversation; "she was very closely and strictly kept by her mother,
and I suppose she thinks it is the best way."
"I was telling Calista about what her grandfather said the last time he
was here," observed Aunt Betsy, as she set a jug of rich cream on the
table.
"I wouldn't think too much about it, Calista," said Aunt Hannah,
looking a little annoyed.
"But grandfather did say that—I mean, that he had given the old place
to my father and his children?" asked Calista.
"Oh, yes, there is no doubt of that; but I suspect he altered matters
afterwards."
"He hadn't much time to alter them, for he died in a few days," said
Aunt Betsy. "I remember it well. I went out that very afternoon wetting
down some linen I had bleaching on the grass, when I saw Cassius, your
grandfather's servant, riding by as hard as he could go on the old gray.
"'Anything the matter, Cassius?' says I.
"'Yes,' says he, 'the old gentleman's taken very bad. I believe myself
he's dead!' says he, and the tears rolled down his black face, for he
was very fond of his master; 'but, anyhow, I'm going for the doctor.'
"Presently I saw old Doctor Elsmore riding by, and the next thing I
heard the old gentleman was dead, sure enough. Don't thee remember,
Hannah? Thee said,—
"'Well, I am glad I freed my mind to him, anyhow.'"
"I remember," said Hannah.
"Was that before I was born?" asked Calista.
"Oh, no. Thee must have been—let's see. How old is thee now?"
"I shall be sixteen in July."
"Then thee must have been about four years old when thy grandfather
died."
"We won't talk about it any more," said Aunt Hannah, interposing with a
glance of gentle authority at her sister. "Doubtless it was all ordered
for the best."
"I just want to ask one question," said Calista. "What became of
Cassius? Is he dead?"
"Oh no. I saw him last week. He was a careful fellow, and had saved
money, and after his master's death, he bought quite a piece of new
land on the river road, near the house thy grandfather gave him. Thee
must have seen the place—a low, broad house, with a very large thorny
acacia growing over it."
"I have never been over that road," said Calista.
"No! Well, I wonder at that! It is a very little longer than this, but
much pleasanter, especially in summer, though it is rather lonely."
"So that is the reason aunt told me not to go by the river road,"
thought Calista. "I declare I will the very next time I drive home."
Aunt Hannah again interposed with her bundle of patterns, and the
subject was dropped.
But, as they were returning home, Calista adverted to it again.
"Do you suppose, Mary, that the place really was left to me, and that
Aunt Priscilla is keeping me out of it?"
"No," answered Nary; "I am quite sure I have heard my father say that
nobody knew Mr. Stanfield had a child, till Miss Druett brought you
home. But if you want to know about the matter, you had better ask
father himself. Only, Calista, if I were you, I would try not to think
so much about money. If you are not careful, you will come to be as
fond of it as poor Miss Priscilla herself."
"I don't think I am fond of money," said Calista, looking a little
offended.
"But you do think about it a great deal, Calista; you cannot deny that."
"And wouldn't you if you were in my place?"
"I should be tempted to, no doubt," said Mary, honestly; "but I should
try not to give way to it, because I should not feel it right."
"Why not?"
"Because covetousness is sin," returned Mary. "The Bible says
covetousness is idolatry (Col. 3:5); and speaks of 'the covetous, whom
God abhorreth' (Ps. 10:3); and our Lord himself bids us 'take heed,
and beware of covetousness: for a man's life consisteth not in the
abundance of the things which he possesseth' (Luke 12:15). Moreover,
we are told not to love the world, neither the things which are in the
world, because if any man love the world, the love of the Father is not
in him (1 John 2:15)."
"If you were in my place, you couldn't help thinking about it,"
persisted Calista, "any more than you could help thinking about food if
you didn't have enough to eat."
"I suppose Miss Priscilla thinks she can't help it either."
"I am much obliged to you, Mary, for comparing me to Miss Priscilla!"
said Calista, with offended stiffness. "I didn't know, before, what a
good opinion you had of me."
"Now you are unreasonable, Calista, and I sha'n't answer you."
"But about this matter of grandfather's will: do you think it is
unreasonable in me to want to know the truth about it?"
"No, I don't, especially after what you have heard, and if I were you,
I would ask papa; only, Calista, don't build upon it."
But Calista could not help building upon it. She had no opportunity of
asking Judge Settson about the matter, for company came in to spend the
evening, and the next day he was called away out of town. But Calista
held firmly to her purpose.
CHAPTER FOURTH.
CASSIUS.
THE school was closed rather earlier than usual next day, and Calista
walked home. She hesitated for a moment when she came to the place
where the two roads divided, and then took the lower road, which
ran near the bank of the river, and a good deal of the way through
oak-scrub and deserted clearings. Calista had been used to walking to
and from the village alone for half a dozen years, but it cannot be
denied that she felt a little nervous as she went on for one stretch of
the road after another, meeting nobody and seeing no human habitation.
What if she should meet with wild hogs or cattle? Or, worse still, with
some of the more than half-wild "pine rats," who were to be found here
and there in the wilderness which thus stretched a great part of the
way from Cohansey River to the Atlantic Ocean.
"Pshaw, what a goose I am!" she said to herself impatiently, as she
found herself starting at a sudden rustle in the bushes. "I haven't
anything worth stealing, and I don't believe any one would want to hurt
me."
Nevertheless she felt a thrill of uncomfortable fear as a man pushed
his way through the bushes, carrying a gun and followed by a large dog,
and she was not a little relieved when the new-comer proved to be a
negro, who touched his hat civilly as he said good-afternoon.
"This is the road to the Mills, is it not?" asked Calista, returning
the old man's greeting.
"Yes, Miss, this is one road." Then, as he walked along by her side, he
said, with a little hesitation, "Beg pardon, Missy, but isn't this the
old General Stanfield's grandchild?"
"Yes; I am General Stanfield's grandchild, the daughter of Mr. Richard
Stanfield. Did you know my father?"
"Reckon I did," said the man, taking off his hat and bowing again.
"Many's the time I've rode your pa on my back, and took him out fishing
on the creek. I was with your grandpa through great part of the old
war, and all the time afterward till he died. He was a fine old
gentleman, and I wouldn't never have left him, but I couldn't run with
Miss Priscy after he was gone; so I bought a piece of land and set up
farming for myself."
"And how do you get on?" asked Calista, much interested.
"Oh, first-rate," answered Cassius, cheerfully. "We's had our ups and
downs, of course. I've been laid up with the rheumatiz some, and the
old woman has her poor spells, but we rub on. I sell a good deal of
truck in the village; and we keep lots of chickens, and ducks, and
geese. Then I fish and shoot some in the season—I've got a real nice
boat—and altogether we make out to lay up a little against the hour of
need. For the rest, why we has food and raiment, and we's learned to be
therewith content, as the good Book says."
"Have you any children?" asked Calista.
"Only two boys, Missy. They's both doing well; one's living out in
Princeton, and one in Philadelphia; both in nice gentlemen's families.
We had two nice girls, but the Lord took them both. His will be done."
And the old man lifted his hat again.
"That was hard on you," said Calista.
"Yes, it did seem hard, Missy; but He knew best. I tell my old woman
they's just as much ours as ever they was, only the Lord's keeping them
for us. Won't you stop in a minute and see Sally? She'll be dreadful
glad to see you."
"I am afraid I ought not to stop to-night, Cassius," replied Calista,
looking, with rather longing eyes, at the neat little house, where
stood Sally in the cleanest of turban handkerchiefs and aprons,
curtseying, and showing her white teeth in a smile of welcome. "But
I mean to come and see you some time. I should like to hear about my
father."
Sally was not to be cheated, however. She came down to the gate to
speak to Calista; gave her a handful of lilies-of-the-valley, from her
neat flower garden, and insisted on filling her basket with delicate,
fresh-baked ginger-nuts, which Calista would have refused.
"Please do take 'em, Missy," said Sally. "I know young ladies is fond
of ginger-nuts, and it ain't every one that can make 'em like me,
though I say it that shouldn't."
She emptied her plate into Calista's basket, and then said something
in an undertone to her husband, of which Calista only caught the words
"Old Zeke."
"I'm a-going," said Cassius.
"Well, Missy, I won't urge you to stay, as it's growing late; and young
ladies of good family shouldn't ought to be out in lonesome places
after sundown. I've got to go your way a piece, so I'll just see you
past the woods."
"What did Sally say?" asked Calista, as they walked on together.
"Oh, she was speaking about an old fellow that hangs about here
sometimes; they call him Old Zeke. I don't really suppose he'd do you
any harm; but he's a rough customer, and might scare you. And if you'll
excuse the freedom, Missy, I wouldn't come this way unless you are
driving. It's rather too lonesome a road for a young lady; and some
of these pine rats is apt to be hanging round, fishing or something.
There's Zeke now. Don't be scared, Missy, he won't hurt you."
Calista looked up, and as she confronted the old man, she was glad she
had not encountered him alone.
He was a very tall and powerful man, a good deal bent, with a shock
of grizzled hair that fell on his shoulders, and shaggy brows, under
which looked out a pair of fierce light-blue eyes. He was dressed in
an indescribable mass of rags and tatters; but over his shoulder he
carried a good, serviceable looking gun.
"Evening, Zeke," said Cassius, good-naturedly.
The old man returned a surly sort of nod, and honored Calista with a
fixed stare, which lasted till a turn of the road hid him from sight.
"That's a queer old fellow," said Calista. "I am glad I did not meet
him alone."
"Well, I don't reckon he would have hurt you—indeed, I can't say as he
ever hurt any one; but he is a queer body, as you say, Missy, and his
wife is queerer still, if all tales are true. The folks round here do
say that they know more than they've got any business to."
"More about what?" asked Calista.
"Oh, they say the old folks are in league with spirits and that they
know how to find treasures, and lost money, and so on."
"I should not think they could have found much, to judge from his
appearance," said Calista.
Cassius laughed. "Well, you can't always tell from the outside who
has money and who hasn't, but I believe it is true that they do spend
a good deal of time seeking for the money that folks say the pirates
buried along the creek here in the time of the old French war. Old Mrs.
Tyerson began talking to me about it one day, but says I,—
"'You go along with your pirates and their money. Suppose'n you did
find it, 'twould be bloody gold, and never bring you nothing but ill
luck,' says I. 'Don't covet an evil covetousness to your house, Sister
Tyerson,' says I. 'Let Old Zeke and his spells alone. I don't want his
money. I've got enough to eat and drink and wear, and something to give
to my Master besides, and when you've got that, it ain't money, nor the
want of money, that makes folks well off or bad off,' says I."
"But money is a good thing," said Calista, struck with the old man's
remarks.
"It is a good thing when it comes with the blessing of God, and in the
right way, Missy," said Cassius, solemnly. "So is everything else.
But when it comes any other way, it is nothing but a curse and a
judgment. Well, here we are within sight of the house, so I'll bid you
good-night."
"Good-night, and thank you, Cassius. I shall come and see you again
some time when I have the horse."
Calista hastened homeward, and entering at the back door, ran up
stairs to her room without meeting any one. She hid away her basket of
ginger-nuts in a safe place, brushed her hair, and went down stairs.
"Now for it!" said she as she put her hand on the lock of the parlor
door. "I wonder what kind of mood she is in?"
Miss Priscilla and Miss Druett had apparently just taken their seats at
the tea-table.
Miss Priscilla was a small, delicate woman, with a trim, upright
figure, reddish-brown hair, hardly touched with gray, and greenish
hazel eyes. She was dressed neatly, though with the utmost plainness,
and would have been pretty but for her eager, suspicious expression,
and the nervous restlessness of her eyes, which seemed not to be still
for a moment. As Aunt Chloe said, Priscilla looked as if she saw
ghosts, or was afraid she should see them. Her greeting to Calista was
characteristic.
"Well, what has brought you home now? I didn't expect to see you
till after supper. You would have had plenty of time to walk home
afterwards."
"She is late enough as it is," observed Miss Druett, not unkindly. "Get
yourself a plate, Calista; Chloe has not provided one for you."
Calista did not answer either observation. She brought herself a plate
and knife, accepted the cup of tea Miss Druett handed her, and helped
herself to a slice of bread and some butter. A small dish of fried fish
stood at Miss Priscilla's plate, and there was nothing else on the
table.
"Oh, don't be bashful!" said Miss Priscilla, in a bitterly sarcastic
tone. "Take all the butter on the plate, do. Perhaps you would like
some of my fish?"
A spark of fun gleamed in Calista's eyes.
"Thank you, aunt; since you are so kind, I won't hurt your feelings
by refusing. My walk has given me an appetite." And she coolly helped
herself to the smallest of the fish.
Miss Priscilla looked helplessly irritated at seeing herself taken at
her word, and regaining possession of the dish, she hastily set it on
the other side of her plate.
Miss Druett suppressed a smile, and shook her head at Calista.
"Well, and what is going on in town?" asked Miss Druett, presently.
"Haven't you any news to tell us?"
"There is a good deal going on in one way," said Calista. "The ladies
are all very busy about this fair for furnishing the new parsonage
house."
"Rubbish!" said Miss Priscilla.
"The girls are all going to work for it," continued Calista. "Miss
McPherson gives them Wednesday afternoon, and they are each to make
something for the sale."
"Oh," said Miss Priscilla, with an unusually polite display of
interest, "that seems a very nice plan of Miss McPherson's. I suppose
she furnishes the materials?"
"Of course she furnishes the materials for most of the girls' work. She
buys all their silks and crewels, and so on, in Philadelphia."
"And makes a good profit on them, no doubt. Trust a Scotch woman for
that."
"I don't know how that is," replied Calista. "She wanted Mr. Clapp to
keep fine working materials, but he said the profit was not worth the
risk and trouble. He does keep netting, thread, and silk, and a few
other things."
"Oh," said Miss Priscilla, again; "and what part do you intend to take
in this notable display of industry and charity?"
Calista made no answer, but passed her cup for some more tea.
"One cup of tea is enough for a girl like you," said Miss Priscilla.
"Do you hear me, Druey? I say one cup is enough."
"Nonsense!" was the reply. "Let the child have her tea. I am sure it is
not strong enough to hurt her."
And she coolly filled the cup and returned it to Calista.
"Oh, very well; of course it is for you to say. Perhaps, Miss Calista
Stanfield, you will condescend to answer my question. What part are you
intending to take in this matter?"
"That is for you to say, Aunt Priscilla," replied Calista, in unruffled
good humor. "You know very well that I have nothing of my own. I
thought if I had some fine knitting cotton, I might knit a bureau
cover, or something of that sort."
"Oh! And how much might this same fine knitting cotton cost?"
"About a quarter of a dollar, I suppose; perhaps thirty or forty cents."
"Oh, indeed! Then I can tell you, Miss Calista Stanfield, you will
have no twenty-five or thirty cents to spend on any such purpose.
Twenty-five or thirty cents, indeed! Why not ask at once for
twenty-five or thirty dollars?"
"I might about as well, I suppose," said Calista. "I should not have
mentioned the matter at all if you had not asked me."
"Don't be pert, miss. I suppose you want to show off your charity at my
expense; but you must make up mind to be mortified for once."
"For once!" thought Calista. But she said, cheerfully: "Oh, it won't
mortify me at all, Aunt Priscilla. All the girls will know that it is
your doing and not mine, and so will every one else."
"You might let the child have a little money for once," said Miss
Druett.
"Money indeed! You talk as if I were made of money!" said Miss
Priscilla. "Money to furnish the parsonage! Let Mr. Lee furnish his own
parsonage. Money indeed! Money!"
The party relapsed into silence, which was maintained till Chloe came
to take the tea-things.
Miss Priscilla, with her own hands, carefully removed some
infinitesimal particles of butter from the plates and replaced them on
the dish.
"There is enough for your supper and David's," said she, anxiously.
"You won't need to use any more."
Chloe sniffed the air contemptuously, but made no reply.
"What made you so late coming home?" asked Miss Druett.
"I came by the river road," replied Calista.
"Why did you do that? It is longer and very lonely."
"Yes, I know, and I don't think I shall try it again; at least on foot."
"Did you see anybody?"
"Yes, I saw old Cassius and his wife, and had quite a talk with him."
"Cassius—what about Cassius?" asked Miss Priscilla.
"Nothing, aunt, only I was saying I saw him and had a little talk with
him."
"I won't have you talking with every one you meet," said Miss
Priscilla, sharply; "you are just such another as your father—hail
fellow, well met, with half the vagabonds in the country."
"I should not call Cassius a vagabond," said Calista, too much
accustomed to Miss Priscilla's remarks about her father to mind them
as another girl would. "He has a nice little farm, with everything
comfortable about him, and seems as contented as the day is long. But I
did meet a vagabond, Miss Druett," said Calista; "the queerest-looking
old fellow I ever saw. Cassius calls him Old Zeke. He says the old man
and his wife are treasure-seekers, and know more than they ought to.
Do you know anything about him, Miss Druett?" she asked, seeing, or
fancying, that Miss Druett looked uneasy.
"A little," replied Miss Druett. "He used to hang about here, years
ago. He and his wife are miserable cheats and impostors. I hope poor
Cassius is not taken in by him."
"I should say there was no danger," said Calista. "Cassius says that,
even if they did find the pirate's money, it would be bloody gold and
would bring ill luck; and besides, he has enough without it."
"Has he? He must be rich, then!"
"I don't think it always takes riches to make people contented,"
observed Calista; "just see Miss Hannah and Miss Betsy, how happy they
are!"
"So they ought to be—such prices as they ask for their weaving and
spinning," said Miss Priscilla. "What do you know about them, pray?"
"I went with Mary to see them about some towels they are weaving for
Miss Alice, and they asked us to stay to tea."
"Oh, Miss Alice is too fine a lady to do her own spinning, I suppose!"