"Keys," said Miss Druett, smiling. "Look into your room, and perhaps
you will find something they will fit."
With a beating heart Calista, opened the door. There in a row at the
side stood the three brown leather trunks, marked on the end "Calista
Folsom."
CHAPTER TWELFTH.
THE TRUNKS.
"I KNOW it was your doing, Miss Druett. How did you manage it?"
"Why, I thought the present was a good time for some diplomacy, so
I made the restoration of the trunks, and several other things,
conditions of my remaining. You are my girl now, Calista, and must mind
me. I mean to be very harsh and tyrannical, so you must make up your
mind to it. I shall take out all my injuries of every sort on you."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that I made it one condition of my staying another day,
that you were to be delivered over to my care altogether, Priscilla
furnishing your board as long as you stay here, and I being at all
the other expenses of your maintenance and education. So mind you
don't tear your dresses and spoil your shoes running after flowers and
squirrels, or I don't know what will happen."
"It is too much, Miss Druett; more than you ought to do."
"No, I can afford it well enough; as things are, I have not much use
for money."
"But you might live so much more pleasantly somewhere else."
"More pleasantly, perhaps, but pleasure is not all, my little girl.
Here is my place, and here I must remain for the present. General
Stanfield was my mother's friend and helper in her sorest hour of need,
and I will stay and watch over his daughter as long as I can do her any
good."
"I believe you are the only person who has any influence with her,"
remarked Calista.
"I think so too, and I don't know how long that influence will last;
but while it does, I am bound to use it."
"But about the trunks?" said Calista.
"Well, they are another condition. Of course, I cannot say in what
state you may find their contents, but they have never been touched
since they were piled up in that room."
"I wonder Aunt Priscilla has not ransacked them long ago."
"She never had the chance," replied Miss Druett. "I mislaid the keys,
and did not find them for a long time, and when I did, I thought it
just as well not to mention the fact. But now, Calista, I have one
or two conditions to impose as you, if this bargain of ours is to
stand. The first is, that you shall not go out, visit, or make any new
acquaintances, without consulting me."
"I am sure I agree to that," said Calista; "I am only too thankful to
have some one who really cares what I do."
"The second is, that you shall never speak disrespectfully to, or of,
Priscilla; it is not good for you or her."
"I agree to that, too," said Calista. "I never speak of her at all,
if I can help it; never to any one but Mr. Settson or Mary, who
know all about her. I never fancied making family matters common
property—'setting all your broken dishes out on the fence,' as Chloe
says."
"That is the true ladylike spirit," said Miss Druett. "You must come to
me whenever you want money, clothes, or books, and you must let me be
the judge as to your need of them. When I have time to look over and
calculate my resources, I shall try to make you a regular allowance
of pocket-money, though it will have to be very small. Take care of
your keys; keep the trunks always locked, and the keys in your pocket
or under your pillow. Now get yourself ready for supper, and mind you
don't say anything to exasperate Priscilla."
Calista obeyed. It required some firmness on her part to resist the
temptation at once to open the trunks, which she could hardly believe
to be really within her reach. She made herself as neat as she could,
taking particular pains with her hair, which Miss Druett said was like
her father's. As she entered the sitting-room, Miss Druett sighed, and
even Miss Priscilla seemed struck with her appearance.
"Just like her father," said she, half to herself; "just like him, mind
and body; and would make the money fly just so, if she could get it;
but that won't be in my time. No, no."
Calista thought of her promise just in time to suppress a sharp retort.
She took her place at the table, which was rather better furnished than
ordinary, and helped herself to bread and butter without receiving
the usual rebuke. Indeed, Miss Priscilla seemed rather anxious to
conciliate her niece, and actually asked her two or three civil
questions.
"Well, really, she got through a meal without snapping at me once,"
said Calista to herself; "but I suppose it is too good to last."
"Where is the working-case I gave you this morning?" asked Aunt
Priscilla, as Calista rose to leave the room after supper. "I want to
see it."
"I took it to town to have the knife and scissors put in order so that
I could use them, and I did not bring it home," answered Calista,
telling the truth, but not quite the whole truth.
"Humph! However, it doesn't matter to me; only I should like to know
how you expected to pay for it."
"Why, aunt, you know you gave me a whole sixpence," answered Calista.
"More fool I!" answered Miss Priscilla, gruffly.
"And Miss Druett also gave me a little money—so I was quite rich."
"More fool she!" again ejaculated Miss Priscilla. "However, it is no
concern of mine."
Miss Priscilla composed herself for her usual nap.
And Calista, dismissed by a glance from Miss Druett, stole away to
examine her treasures.
The keys and locks were alike rusty, but a little grease from her
treasured bit of tallow-candle soon removed that trouble; and it was
with a feeling of awful delight that Calista opened the long-shut lids,
and inhaled the odor of the spices, camphor, and tobacco, with which
Mrs. Tom Folsom and Miss Malvina had embalmed their contents so long
ago. It almost seemed to her as if she were about to have an interview
with her mother.
The first trunk she opened contained only linen—real linen, and of
good quality—for, at the time poor Calista Folsom's wedding outfit was
provided, cotton was very little worn, except in the shape of chintz.
Calista found her own baby-clothes, pinned up in a separate bundle, and
shed some tears over the dainty sewing, the beautiful satin stitch,
and lace-like cut work with which they were adorned. The next trunk
contained dresses and other things of that nature, and Calista opened
her eyes wide at the three or four rich silks, the soft gray Canton
crape, and the beautiful, unapproachable India camel's hair cloth—such
as I remember seeing upon old ladies when I was young. Then there were
two er three white dresses, worked in deep patterns, with floss and
amazing lace stitches; a large white Canton crape shawl, and another
which Calista was sure was an Indian cashmere, of a soft, dusky, almost
smoky, red—such as no Western dyer ever attained or ever will—with wide
borders at the ends and narrow ones at the sides.
"I wonder whether I shall ever wear any of these things?" said Calista
to herself, as she carefully restored them to their neat folds and
wrappings. "But, oh, how I wish I could find something which tells more
about herself!—some letters or journals. Perhaps they are in the other
trunks."
So it proved. The contents of the last trunk were more valuable than
any of the others. It contained a gold watch and chain much like that
one which Calista had discovered is her grandfather's desk; a box
containing an expensive set of ornaments and some beautiful lace—poor
Richard's wedding present to his bride; a number of books, among them a
Bible and Psalm-book, bound alike and marked with her mother's name. In
the inside of the Bible was written, in a legible but unsteady hand:
"I leave this Book—which was given me by my own dear mother, on her
death-bed—to my precious and only child, Calista Stanfield. May it be a
lamp to her feet and a light to her path, which shall grow brighter and
brighter unto the perfect day!"
On another leaf, and evidently by the same hand, was inscribed Richard
Crashaw's inscription in a prayer-book:
"It is an armory of light;
Let constant use but keep it bright,
You'll find it yields,
To holy hands and humble hearts,
More swords and shields
Than sin hath snares, or hell hath darts.
Only be sure
The hands be pure
That hold these weapons; and the eyes,
Those of turtles, chaste and true,
Wakeful and wise."
The trunk also contained a work-box and writing-desk each covered with
red morocco, and having the key tied to the handle. Calista was just
going to lift out the writing-desk, when some one knocked and opened
the door. It was Miss Druett.
"Just as I expected," said she. "Do you know what time it is?"
"No, ma'am. Is it late?"
"Only half-past ten—which is rather late for you. Put up your things
and lock the boxes for to-night, or you will have Priscilla in here.
Where did you get your candle?"
"I bought it with some of the money you gave me. Was that wrong? It
does seem so hard not to have a light for anything."
"Not wrong at all. I should have thought of it; but somehow it is only
within a few weeks that I have found out you are not a baby. Here, let
me help you. In what condition did you find the things?"
"They seem to be all right. I don't think the boldest moth would have
ventured into the trunks, they are so filled with tobacco and camphor.
I believe I will keep out mother's Bible and Psalm-book. I know she
would want me to use them."
"Very well. And, Calista, that reminds me of another thing I wanted to
say. Don't read a book in this house—I mean, not a book you find in the
house—without asking me. I don't want your young blood poisoned as mine
was."
"You don't mean that I shall not read mother's books!" said Calista, a
little dismayed.
"Oh, no! I am not afraid of any books your mother was likely to have.
There, good-night! And don't burn the house down."
Calista fastened her door and then sat down to look over her treasures.
The Bible had evidently been long and carefully used, and was marked
from end to end with pencil marks, notes, and references. As Calista
turned over the leaves, it seemed to her as if her mother was talking
with her, so many of the passages seemed marked with special reference
to herself. But the most precious of all was to come. Pinned to the
last leaf of the book was a letter in her mother's handwriting,
addressed—
"To my dear and precious daughter, Calista Stanfield. To be given her
as soon as she shall be able to read and understand it."
Calista carefully unpinned the letter and looked at it before she broke
the seal, and a feeling of anger rose in her heart at the thought that
so precious a legacy should have been kept from her hands so long. But
this emotion passed away as she read the letter—just such a letter as
a loving, tender, Christian mother might be expected to write to a
daughter under such circumstances. It began with a slight sketch of the
writer's own life, and from it Calista first learned that her maternal
grandfather had been a somewhat noted New England minister.
"I wonder whether I have any relations living," thought Calista. "I
must try to find out some time."
The letter proceeded to give some judicious counsel as to the guidance
of her future life.
"I cannot but feel that I have been hardly treated by your father's
family," the writer went on to say. "Certainly, I never intended to
injure them in any way. Nevertheless, for your father's sake, should
you be brought in contact with your grandfather or aunt, I beg you will
try to make friends with them."
The writer concluded with a most earnest appeal to Calista at once to
give her whole heart to her heavenly Father, to put herself body and
soul in his hands, and strive to follow the steps of her Saviour into
all holiness and godly living, that she might not fail to meet her
friends at the right hand of God in the great day of account.
Calista shed many tears over this letter, as was only natural.
"Oh, I will—I will!" she said to herself. "I will try to be a
Christian, like my dear mother. I will resolve this minute to serve
God, and to put myself into his hands."
So she did, poor lonely child, and that in all sincerity; but she was
to find out that the gate was straiter and the way narrower than she
had any idea of. The "lion in the way" does not usually lie on the
threshold, but just a little way inside.
Calista went to bed thinking that she should not sleep at all; but
youth and health do not often lie awake long. She was asleep almost
before her head touched the pillow, and did not awake till the robin
which lived in the great tree opposite her window began his usual
musical morning call.
"It can't be more than four o'clock," said she to herself. "You stupid
robin, what did you wake me so early for? Can't you get up yourself
without making such a fuss about it? I suppose I had better go to bed
again."
She lay down, accordingly, and tried to go to sleep for full ten
minutes. Then she decided that there was no use is trying any longer,
and she might as well get up and finish looking over the things. She
was soon dressed and seated on the ground before her treasures. She
opened the work-box first: it contained the usual working implements,
and one thing not often seen in these days—a thread-case, stitched into
long, numbered compartments, into each of which was drawn a skein of
thread or silk, cut at one end.
Calista opened a velvet case with some trouble, and found, as she
expected, a miniature picture of her father. Fastened into the lid of
the case was a sketch, in water colors, of a sweet, fair, somewhat prim
and precise-looking female face, evidently done by no professional
hand. It afforded a great contrast, in its thin tints and stiff
outlines, to the beautifully painted picture on the other side; but
there about it that nameless something which showed it was a likeness.
The clear, well-opened, but somewhat hollow blue eyes, with their
level, even brows, looked at Calista with love; and the firm, but not
stern, mouth seemed as if it might speak. A shadowy remembrance came
over Calista of her mother sitting before a glass and painting, while
she herself sat on the floor and scribbled with a lead pencil. She
kissed the picture again and again.
"She painted it for me—I am sure she painted it for me. My precious
mother!"
But the writing-desk was the most interesting and important of all.
It was of pretty good size, and was packed full of papers arranged
in neat order. There were letters, which had evidently been received
from young friends, full of news and gossip about companions and work
and books, and also with more serious matters—news of a schoolmate's
conversion, requests for prayers, and the like. There were letters
from her father, written after he left her mother to go to the wars;
manly and tender, and thoroughly devout and Christian in their tone.
The last one expressed great regret at the writer's estrangement
from his father.
"I have written to him, and I hope you will do the same. I am sure if
he were only to see you, all would be right between you."
This letter was endorsed,—
"The last letter I ever had from my dearest husband. God's will be
done!"
Wrapped up with this letter was a very different one. On the cover was
written, in her mother's hand:
"I have been, two or three times, on the point of destroying this
letter; but have refrained, thinking it might, at some time, be of use.
I wish to record my firm belief that General Stanfield never saw it or
ordered it written."
Calista opened the letter. It was in Miss Priscilla's clear, cramped
hand, and read as follows:
"Mrs. Richard Stanfield's letter is received. Mrs. Richard Stanfield
is hereby informed that General Stanfield wishes to hold no communication
with her or her husband on any subject whatever; and that no letters
from either of them will meet with any attention.
(Signed) "PRISCILLA STANFIELD,
"For Richard Stanfield."
At the end was written:
"Nevertheless, I wrote to my husband's father and to his sister at the
time when my child was born, but I never received the slightest answer."
Calista sat with burning cheeks, holding this letter in her hands.
Her lips were compressed, and her eyes full of trouble. She was not
thinking of the loss of property, not at all of herself in connection
with it, but of the cruel injury done to her mother.
"Then she did know. She knew all the time. But Mr. Settson said
grandfather did not know of my existence, and it would certainly seem
so from what Miss Betsy said. She must have contrived some way to keep
the letters from grandfather altogether. Oh, how could she—how could
she be so cruel! And there was my poor mother working herself to death
to support herself and me. I never can forgive her—never. If it had
been myself—but my mother—to write so to my mother! If I cannot be a
Christian without forgiving Aunt Priscilla, I shall never be one. But
there is the bell. I must go down. Oh, how I did want these things, and
now I almost wish I had never seen them."
"Forever by the goal are set
Pale disappointment and regret."
As soon as breakfast was over and she could get away, she renewed
her examinations. The trunk contained much that was of interest to
her—books of various sorts, chiefly religious and poetical; scraps
carefully preserved from newspapers; an old-fashioned water-color box,
well furnished with colors, brushes, &c.; a white frock, began but not
finished; and divers other matters of no interest to the reader. When
she had gone through them all once, she locked up the trunks and went
to Miss Druett's room, where she was pretty sure to find her alone at
this time, when Miss Priscilla, always methodical, was engaged in her
daily scolding match with Chloe.
"See here, Miss Druett, what shall I do with these?" said she, showing
her the watch and ornaments she had found.
Miss Druett looked at them with great interest.
"I suppose your father gave your mother these things," said she. "You
must not keep them here. If Priscilla gets wind of them, she will leave
no stone unturned to get them into her hands."
"She will never get them into her hands," said Calista.
"She will try, though. You might give them to Mr. Settson, only he is
not at home. I believe the better way will be to leave them with Mr.
Fabian, at the bank. I could make an errand for you there, and give you
a note to Mr. Fabian. And yet you ought not to walk into town carrying
such a treasure, either. Let me think a little. Here, quick, child, let
me put them in my desk. I hear Priscilla coming."
Miss Priscilla came in, evidently in a great fume.
"Druey, I want you to go to town," was her salutation.
"What now?" asked Miss Druett, with her usual coolness.
"That man Anderson was to have been here day before yesterday, to pay
his interest, and he hasn't come. I want you to go and see about it."
"I can't possibly go to-day. What does it signify? I dare say he will
be here to-morrow. He is always pretty punctual."
"But I want the money."
"Nonsense; you are not suffering for it."
"But I want it," said Miss Priscilla, fretfully; "and you don't know
whether I am suffering or not."
"I know I am," said Miss Druett. "I had earache all night, and if I
should ride to town in this wind, I should have it for a month."
"You can wrap your head up," pleaded Miss Priscilla. "Come, Druey, do;
just to oblige me."
"I would if I could, Priscilla. I want to go myself, but I am not able.
Why not let the child go?"
"The child, indeed! What good can she do?"
"She can carry a note as well as I, and do my errand at the same time.
Let her take the pony. You don't mind, do you, Calista?"
"No, I should like it," said Calista.
Miss Priscilla grumbled and complained, but finally decided that
Calista might do the errand, if she would be careful and not drive the
pony too fast.
"I should like to see myself doing it," said Calista, laughing in spite
of her trouble. "Never fear, aunt; Jeff and I are old friends. I will
run and tell David to get up the chaise."
"He knows about it already," said Miss Priscilla. "I counted on Druey's
going, but she thinks so much of her precious ears."
"They are all I have, you see, and I might not find another pair to fit
me," said Miss Druett. "Never mind, Priscilla, the child will do the
errand just as well. Come to me when you are ready."
Calista dressed herself as neatly as she could, and it was with a
mingled feeling of pain and pleasure that she hung over her arm a long,
soft, gray cloth cloak, which she had found among her mother's things.
Miss Druett noticed it as soon as she entered the room.
"That is a very nice, pretty cloak; was it in the trunk?"
"Yes, ma'am. The air is so damp and chilly that I knew I should need
something, and my old shawl is all in holes. I thought perhaps mother
would like to have me use it."
"No doubt she would like to have you use all the things. Be careful of
them, that is all. And, by the way, stop at Mrs. Dare's and see when
she can fit your frocks."
"Oh, she cannot do them at all," said Calista; "she has broken her arm,
and her niece has all she can do with the girls' examination dresses.
But I heard Cassius say that his step-daughter, Drusella Pine, was
coming here directly to set up dressmaking. I know Miss Alice had her
last summer, and was very much pleased with her. I might find out when
she is expected."
"True, and with the horse you will not be afraid to come round that
way. If I were a little richer, you should have a pretty white frock.
However, we will talk of that another time. Here are your trinkets and
a note to Mr. Fabian. Take care you don't lay the bag out of your hand,
and go straight to the bank the first thing."
"May I go up to the school and ask for Miss McPherson? She had one of
her bad headaches yesterday."
"Yes, but don't stay. I shall feel rather anxious till you are safe at
home."
"Why to-day more than any day?"
"Because I am an old fool, child."
"How foolish I have been!" she said to herself. "I believe I have been
of some use to the child as it was, but what comfort we might have been
to each other if I had not been so determined to nurse my anger and
grief all my life! Even now, at my age, I can hardly help being jealous
of the dead mother's cloak. Truly, the sorrow of the world worketh
death."
Miss Druett did not often quote Scripture, but she had done so once or
twice lately. After Calista had gone, she went into her room to see
that everything was safely secured. Her eyes fell upon Calista Folsom's
Bible, and taking it in her hand, she sat down and read a long time.
"What have you been about all the morning, Druey?" said Miss Priscilla,
as they sat down to their twelve o'clock dinner. They were alone, for
Calista had not yet returned.
"You would never believe it if I were to tell you, Priscilla," was the
answer. "I have been reading the Bible."
"What ails everybody?" was Miss Priscilla's comment. "Here Chloe tells
me that old Mr. Alger is going to preach in the old meeting-house every
Sunday evening. There must be something in the air. We shall have you
turning Methodist and leading a class yet."
"I might do worse," said Miss Druett.
I incline to think Miss Priscilla was right, and that there was
something stirring in the air about the Stanfield neighborhood, a-going
in the tops of the trees, as it were, which might be a sign that a
gracious rain was about to fall on that hitherto dry and barren ground.
CHAPTER THIRTEENTH.
THE OLD MEETING-HOUSE.
CALISTA had truly said that she and Jeff understood each other. To
oblige her, he even condescended to trot. Just as she reached the town,
she met the delinquent Joseph Anderson, and stopped to talk with him.
"Good-morning, Friend Anderson. I was just coming to bring you a note
from my aunt."
"I was on my way to see her," was the reply. "I suppose she is in a
fret about her interest, as usual. I have had it by me these ten days,
but my poor sister Rolfe was so ill, I did not like to be out of the
way."
"I heard yesterday she was not as well."
"She is not long for this world, though she is more comfortable this
morning," said the old man, shaking his head. "Well, it will be a
glorious exchange for her, that is one comfort."
"A great one, I am sure," said Calista.
"Yes, yes, thee is right; but then thee knows the heart will cling to
those it loves. Well, I must go on my errand and get back. Thee had
better give me the note, perhaps."
Calista did so, and drove on to the bank, where she found Mr. Fabian,
an elderly white-haired man, of precise, polite manners, who shook her
by the hand, and complimented her on her growing resemblance to her
father.