Part 3

"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."

Aunt Hannah, though the younger of the two old ladies, was much the 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.