Part 1

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

THE

OLD STANFIELD HOUSE;

OR,

THE SIN OF COVETOUSNESS.

BY

LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY

AUTHOR OF

"IRISH AMY," "THE FAIRCHILDS," "RHODA'S EDUCATION," ETC., ETC.

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"Love not the world, neither the things that are in the world."

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PHILADELPHIA: AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION NO. 1122 CHESTNUT STREET. —————————— NEW YORK: NO. 8 AND 10 BIBLE HOUSE, ASTOR PLACE. CHICAGO: 73 RANDOLPH ST.

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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.

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CONTENTS.

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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.

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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.