The days seemed to move slowly. They were such troublesome days to Matilda. From the morning bath, which was simply her detestation, all through the long hours of reading, and patching, and darning in Mrs. Candy's room, the time dragged; and no sooner was dinner over, than she began to dread the next morning again. It was not so much for the cold water as for the relentless hand that applied it. Matilda greatly resented having it applied to her at all by any hand but her own; it was an aggravation that her aunt minded that, and her, no more than if she had been a baby. It was a daily trial, and daily trouble; for Matilda was obliged to conquer herself, and be silent, and submit where her whole soul rose and rebelled. She must not speak her anger, and pleadings were entirely disregarded. So she ran down in the morning when her aunt's bell rang, and was passive under all that Mrs. Candy pleased to inflict; and commanded herself when she wanted to cry for vexation, and was still when words of entreaty or defiance rose to her lips. The sharp lesson of self-control Matilda was learning now. She had to practise it again when she took her hours of needlework. Mrs. Candy was teaching her now to knit, and now to mend lace, and then to make buttonholes; and she required perfection; and Matilda was forced to be very patient, and careful to the extreme of carefulness, and docile when her work was pulled out, and persevering when she was quite tired and longed to go down and help Maria in the kitchen. She was learning useful arts, no doubt, but Matilda did not care for them; all the while the most valuable thing she was learning was the lesson of power over herself. Well if that were all. But there were some things also down in the bottom of Matilda's heart which it was not good to learn; and she knew it; but she did not know very well how to help it.
Several weeks had gone by in this manner, and now June was about over. Matilda had not gone to Lilac Lane again, nor seen Norton, nor made any of her purchases for Mrs. Eldridge. She had almost given all that up. She wondered that she saw nothing of Norton; but if he had ever come to the house she had not heard of it. Matilda was not allowed to go out in the evening now any more. No more Band meetings, or prayer meetings, or church service in the evening for her. And in the morning of Sunday Mrs. Candy was very apt to carry her off to her own church, which Matilda disliked beyond all expression. But she went as quietly as if she had liked it.
Things were in this state, when one evening Maria came up to bed and burst out as soon as she had got into the room,—
"Think of it! They are going to New York to-morrow."
Matilda was bewildered, and asked who was going to New York.
"They. Aunt Erminia and Clarissa. To be gone all day! Hurrah! We'll have just what we like for dinner, and I'll let the kitchen fire go out."
"Are they going down to New York to-morrow?" said Matilda, standing and looking at her sister.
"By the early train. Don't you hear me tell you?"
"I thought it was too good news to be true," said Matilda, drawing a long breath.
"It is, almost; but they are going. They are going to do shopping. That's what it's for. And I say, Matilda, won't we have a great dinner to get!"
"They will want dinner after they get home."
"No, they won't. They will take dinner somehow down there. Why they will not be home, Tilly, till nine o'clock. They can't. The train don't get up till a quarter-past eight, that train they are going to take; and they will have to be an hour pretty near riding up from the station. Hurrah! hurrah!"
"Hush! don't make so much noise. They will hear you."
"No, they won't. They have come up to bed. We are to have breakfast at six o'clock. We shall have all the longer day."
"Then I hope Aunt Candy will not have time to give me my bath."
"No, she won't; she told me to tell you. You are to be ever so early, and help me to get the breakfast. I shall not know what to do with the day, though, I shall want to do so much. That is the worst of it."
Matilda thoughtshewould be under no such difficulty, if only her way were not so hedged in. The things she would have liked to do were forbidden things. She might not go to Lilac Lane; she might not go to Mrs. Laval's. She half expected that her aunt would say she must not go out of the house at all. That misfortune, however, did not happen. The early breakfast and bustle and arrangements for getting off occupied Mrs. Candy so completely that she gave no commands whatever. The omnibus fairly drove away with her, and left Maria and Matilda unrestricted by any new restrictions.
"It seems," said Matilda, gravely, as they stood by the gate, "it seems as if I could see the sky again. I haven't seen it this great while."
"Seen the sky!" said Maria; "what has ailed you? You have gone out often enough."
"It didn't seem as if I could see the sky," said Matilda, gazing up into the living blue depth above her. "I can see it now."
"You are funny," said Maria. "It don't seem to me as if I had seen anything, for weeks. Dear me! to-day will be only too short."
"It is half-past six now," said Matilda. "Between now and nine o'clock to-night there are—let me see; half-past twelve will be six hours, and half-past six will be twelve hours; six, seven, eight, nine,—nine will be two hours and a half more; that will be fourteen and a half hours."
"Fourteen," said Maria, "That half we shall be expecting them."
"Well, we've got to go in and put the house in order, first thing," said Matilda. "Let's make haste."
"Then I'll let the kitchen fire go out," said Maria; "and we'll dine on bread and butter, and cold potatoes. I like cold potatoes; don't you?"
"No," said Matilda; "but I don't care what we have. I'll have bread and butter and cold coffee, Maria; let us save the coffee. That will do."
With these arrangements made, the day began. The two girls flew round in a kind of glee to put the rooms up and get all the work done out of the way. Work was a kind of play that morning. Then they agreed to take their dinner early and dress themselves. Maria was going out after that to see some friends and have some fun, she said. Matilda on her part had a sort of faint hope that to-day, when it would be so opportune, it might happen that Norton Laval would come to see what had become of her. She was almost afraid to go out and lose the chance; though, to be sure, it was only the ghost of a chance. Yet for that ghost of a chance she did linger and wait in the house for an hour or two after Maria had gone out. Then it began to press upon her that her aunt had ordered her to get some strawberries from Mr. Sample's for tea; she was uneasy till it was done, and at last took her hat and her basket and resolved to run round into Butternut Street and get that off her mind.
She was standing in Mr. Sample's shop, patiently waiting until her turn should come to be served, when a hand was laid upon her shoulder.
"How do you do, Tilly? You are grown a stranger."
"O Mr. Richmond!" was Matilda's startled response. And it was more startled than glad.
"What is the matter? you look as if I had frightened you,—almost," said the minister, smiling. Matilda did not say what was the matter.
"Have you been quite well?"
"Yes sir."
"You were not in your place on Sunday."
"No, sir."
And Matilda's tone of voice gave an unconscious commentary upon her very few words.
"And you have not been to take tea with me in a great while."
"No, Mr. Richmond."
"Suppose you come to-day."
"Oh, I cannot, sir."
"Why not? I think you can."
"I don't know whether my aunt would let me."
"We will go and ask her."
"Oh no, sir; she is not at home, Mr. Richmond. She has gone to New York."
"For how long?"
"Only till nine o'clock to-night."
"Then there can be no possible harm in your coming to take tea at the parsonage."
"I don't know whether she would let me," said Matilda, with an evident intimation that the doubt was barrier enough.
"You think she would not like it?"
"I think—perhaps—she would not. Thank you, Mr. Richmond!"
"But, Tilly, I want to talk to you. Have you nothing to say to me?"
"Yes, sir. A great deal," said the child, with the look of slow meditation. The minister considered her for a moment.
"I shall take the decision of the question upon myself, Tilly, and I will make it all right with your aunt. Come to the parsonage, or rather, go to the parsonage; and I will join you there presently. I have half an hour's business first to attend to. You must carry those strawberries home? Very well; then go straight to the parsonage and wait there for me."
And with an encouraging nod and smile, Mr. Richmond walked off. Matilda took her basket home; carried the key of the house door to Maria at Mrs. Trembleton's; and set her face up Butternut Street.
She was very glad; it seemed like getting out of prison; though she was not altogether satisfied in her mind that Mr. Richmond might be able to make it all right with Mrs. Candy. She was obliged to risk that, for Mr. Richmond's invitation had had the force of an injunction. So she took the good of the moment, and turned in at the gate of the parsonage lane with something like a feeling of exultation and triumph. The shadow of the elms was sweet on the road; the smooth quiet of the grounds, railed off from worldly business and care, seemed proper only to the houses of peace which stood upon them. The old creamy-brown church on one side; on the other the pretty new Sunday-school house; in front, at the end of the avenue of elms, the brown door of the parsonage. Matilda felt as if her own life had got away from out of peaceful enclosures; and she walked up the avenue slowly; too slowly for such a young life-traveller. She had no need to knock this time, but just opened the door and went straight to Mr. Richmond's study.
That was peace itself. It was almost too pleasant, to Matilda's fancy. A cool matting was on the floor; the light softened by green hanging blinds; the soft gloom of books, as usual, all about; Mr. Richmond's table, and work materials, and empty chair telling of his habitual occupation; and on his table a jar of beautiful flowers, which some parishioner's careful hand had brought for his pleasure. The room was sweet with geranium and lily odours; and so still and pure-breathed, that the flowers in their depth of colour and wealth of fragrance seemed to speak through the stillness. Matilda did not ask what they said, though maybe she heard. She came a little way into the room, stood still and looked about her a while; and then the child flung herself down on her knees beside a chair and burst into a passion of weeping.
It lasted so long and was so violent that she never heard Mr. Richmond come in. And he on his part was astonished. At the first sound of his voice Matilda stopped crying and let him raise her from the floor; but he did not put her into a chair. Instead of that he sat down himself and drew her to his side. Of course he asked what the matter was. Also, of course, Matilda could not tell him. Mr. Richmond found that out, and then took another road to his object. He let Matilda get quite quiet; gave her a bunch of grapes to eat, while he seemed to busy himself among his books and papers; at last put that down, and took Matilda's plate from her.
"You do not come to church in the evening lately, I observe, Tilly," he remarked.
"No, sir. Aunt Candy does not like me to go."
"And you have not been to the prayer meeting either, or to the meetings of our Commission. The 'Band' is called our 'Christian Commission,' now."
"No, sir." And Matilda's eyes watered.
"For the same reason?"
"Yes, sir."
"Not because you have lost pleasure in such meetings?"
"Oh no, Mr. Richmond! Did you think I had?" she asked, timidly.
"I could notknow, you know," said Mr. Richmond, "and I wanted to ask you. I am very glad to hear it is no bad reason that keeps you away."
"I didn't saythat, Mr. Richmond," Matilda answered, slowly. "Could it be a good reason?"
"Why, it might," said Mr. Richmond, cheerfully. "You might be not well enough; or you might have more important duties to do at home; or you might be unwilling to come alone; and all those might be good reasons for staying away."
"It was no such reason," said Matilda.
There was silence.
"You wanted to talk to me, you said," Mr. Richmond observed.
"Yes, Mr. Richmond, I do; if I only knew how."
"Is it so difficult? It never used to be very difficult, Matilda."
"No, sir; but things are—different."
"Youare not different, are you?"
"I don't know," said Matilda, slowly; "I am afraid so. I feel very different."
"In what way?"
"Mr. Richmond," she went on, still slowly, and as if she were meditating her words,—"I don't see how I can do just right."
"In what respect?" said the minister, very quietly. Again Matilda paused.
"Mr. Richmond, is it always wrong to hate people?"
"What things should make it right for us to hate people?"
"I don't know," said Matilda in the same considering way, "when there isn't the least thing you can love them for, or like them?"
"What if the Lord had gone by that rule in dealing with us?"
"Oh, but He is so good."
"And has commanded us to be just as good, has He not?"
"But can we, Mr. Richmond?"
"What do you think, Tilly, the Lord meant when He gave us the order?"
"He meant we should try."
"Do you think He meant that we should onlytry?do you think He did not mean that we should be as He said?"
"And love hateful people?"
"What do you think, Tilly?"
"O Mr. Richmond, I think I'm not good."
"What is the matter, my dear child?" Mr. Richmond said tenderly, as Matilda burst into quiet tears again. "What troubles you?"
"That, Mr. Richmond. I'm afraid I am not good, for I am not like that; and I don't see how I can be."
"What is the hindrance? or the difficulty?"
"Because, Mr. Richmond, I am afraid I hate my Aunt Candy."
Mr. Richmond was quite silent, and Matilda sobbed awhile.
"Do I understand you aright?" he said, at last. "Do you say that you hate your aunt?"
"I am afraid I do."
"Why should you hate her? Is she not very kind to you?"
"I do not call her kind," said Matilda.
"In what respect is she not kind?"
The child sobbed again, with the unspoken difficulty; stifled sobs.
"She is not cruel to you?" said Mr. Richmond.
"I think she is cruel," said Matilda; "for she does not in the least care about doing things that I do not like; she does not care at all whether I like them or not. I think she likes it."
"What?"
"Just to do things that I can't bear, Mr. Richmond; and she knows I can't bear them."
"What is her reason for doing these things?"
"I think the greatest reason is because she knows I can't bear them. I think I am growing wicked."
"Is it because you displease her in any way, that she does it for a punishment?"
"I do not displease her in any way," said poor Matilda.
"And yet she likes to grieve you?"
"She said I wanted putting down. And now, I suppose I am put down. I am just in prison. I can't do anything. I can't go to Mrs. Laval's house any more. I must not go to Lilac Lane any more. She won't let me. And O Mr. Richmond, we were going to do such nice things!"
"Who were going to do such nice things?"
"Norton Laval and I."
"What things were they?"
"We were going to dosuchnice things! Mrs. Laval gave me money for them, and Norton, he has money always; and we were going to have Mrs. Eldridge's house cleaned, and get a bedstead, and towels, and a table, and ever so many things for her, to make her comfortable; and I thought it would be so pleasant to get the things and take them to her. And aunt Candy says I am not to go again."
"Did you tell your aunt what you were going to do?"
"Oh no, sir; she thinks I have no business with such things; and she does not like anybody to go into very poor houses."
"Then you did not ask her leave?"
"It never is any use to ask her anything. She won't let me go out to church now, except in the morning, and then sometimes she makes me go with her."
Mr. Richmond was silent for some time. Matilda grew quiet, and they both were still.
"And the worst of it all is," resumed Matilda, at last, "that it makes me hate her."
"I do not like to hear you say that."
"No, Mr. Richmond," said Matilda, very sorrowfully.
"Do you think it is right?"
"No, sir."
"Do you think you cannot help doing what is wrong."
"I don't think I can like Aunt Candy."
"We will pass that. But between not liking and hating, there is a wide distance. Are you obliged to hate her?"
Matilda did not answer.
"Do you think anybody can be a child of God and havehatredin his heart?"
"How can I help it, Mr. Richmond?" said Matilda, piteously.
"How can you help anything? The best way is to be so full of love to Jesus that you love everybody for his sake."
"But people that are not good," said Matilda.
"It is easy to love people that are good. The wonder of the love of the Lord Jesus is, that it comes to people who are not good. And His children are like Him. 'Be ye followers of God,' He tells them, 'as dear children; and walk in love.'"
"I am not like that, Mr. Richmond," Matilda said, sadly.
"Didn't you love little Lem Dow? I am sure he is not very good."
"But he never troubled me, much," said Matilda. "He does not make me miserable all the day long."
Mr. Richmond paused again.
"Our Master knew what it was to be ill-treated by bad people, Matilda."
"Yes, Mr. Richmond."
"How did he feel towards them?"
"Oh, but I am not like that," said Matilda again.
"You must be, if you are His child."
"Must I?" said Matilda, the tears dropping from her eyes quietly. "How can I? If you only knew, Mr. Richmond!"
"No matter; the Lord knows. Tell Him all about it, and pray to be made so like Him and to love Him so well that you may love even this unkind friend."
"I don't think she is my friend," said Matilda; "but it don't make any difference."
"No, it does not make any difference."
"Mr. Richmond," said Matilda, timidly, after a moment, "won't you pray with me?"
Which the minister instantly did. Matilda wept quietly all the time of his prayer, and after they rose from their knees, leaning her head on Mr. Richmond's shoulder, where she had poured out her troubles once before. Her friend let her alone, keeping his arm round her kindly, till the child raised her head and wiped her eyes.
"Do you feel better?" he whispered then. Matilda answered "yes," in an answering whisper.
"But Mr. Richmond," she said, presently, "I am very sorry for Lilac Lane."
"I am very sorry," he said.
"There is the money in my purse, all ready, and our list of things. It would have been so pleasant."
"Very pleasant," Mr. Richmond answered.
"And now I can't do Band work any more," Matilda went on. "I have no opportunities for anything any more. I cannot do anything at all."
"There might be something to say about that," Mr. Richmond replied; "but I think you have had enough talk just now. Is your sorrow on account of Lilac Lane because you have lost the pleasure? or because Mrs. Eldridge has lost it?"
"Why, both," said Matilda.
"I suppose so. Would it be any comfort to you to know that the work was done, even though you did not see it?"
"What, you mean the house cleaned and the things got, and Mrs. Eldridge fixed up as we meant to do it?"
"I mean that."
"Oh yes," said Matilda. "If I could know it was done, I would not be half so sorry about it. But Norton can't manage alone; and Maria has no time."
"No, but somebody else might. Now go off and talk to Miss Redwood; and make some more gingerbread or something; and after tea we will see about your lost opportunities if you like."
"Would Miss Redwood do all that for me?" said Matilda.
"You can consult her and find out."
Miss Redwood was mopping up the yellow painted floor of her kitchen, as Matilda softly pushed open the door and looked in.
"Who's that?" said the housekeeper. "Floor's all wet; and I don't want no company till there's a place for 'em to be. Stop! is that Tilly Englefield? Why, I declare it is! Come right in, child. You're the greatest stranger in town."
"But I am afraid to come in, Miss Redwood."
"Then you're easy scared. Come in, child. Step up on that cheer, and sit down on my table. There! now I can look at you, and you can look at me, if you want to. I'll be through directly, and it won't take this paint no time to dry. How's all the folks at your house?"
"Gone to New York for the day; Aunt Candy and Cousin Clarissa are."
"Wouldn't ha' hurted 'em to have took you along. Why didn't they?"
"Oh they were going shopping," said Matilda.
"Well, had you any objections to go shopping?" said the housekeeper, sitting back on her feet and wringing her cloth, as she looked at Matilda perched up on the table.
"I hadn't any shopping to do, you know," said Matilda.
"I hain't no shopping to do, nother," said Miss Redwood, resuming her work vigorously; "but I always like to see other folks' goins on. It's a play to me, jest to go in 'long o' somebody else and see 'em pull down all the things, and turn over all the colours in the rainbow, and suit themselves with purchases I wouldn't look at, and leave my gowns and shawls high and dry on the shelf. And when I go out, I have bought as many dresses as they have, and I have kept my money for all."
"But sometimes people buy what you would like too, Miss Redwood, don't they?"
"Well, child, not often; 'cause, you see, folks's minds is sot on different things; and somehow, folks's gowns have a way o' comin' out o' their hearts. I kin tell, pretty well, what sort o' disposition there is inside of a dress, or under a bonnet, without askin' nobody to give me a character. What's be come o' you all these days? Ha' you made any more gingerbread?"
"No."
"I guess you've forgotten all about it, then. What's the reason, eh?"
"I have been too busy, Miss Redwood."
"Goin' to school again?"
"No, I've been busy at home."
"But makin' gingerbread is play, child;thatain't work."
Matilda was silent; and the housekeeper presently came to a pause again; sat back on her feet, wrung her mopping cloth, and considered Matilda.
"Don't you want to make some this afternoon?"
"If you please; yes, I should like it," said the little girl.
"Humph!" said the housekeeper. "What have you been tiring yourself with to-day?"
"I am not tired," said Matilda. "Thank you, Miss Redwood."
"If I was to get a good bowl o' sour cream now, and shew you how to toss up a short-cake—how would you like that?"
"Oh, I would like it very much—if I could."
"Sit still then," said the housekeeper, "till my floor's dry. Why hain't you been to see me before, eh? Everybody else in creation has been in at the parsonage door but you. You ain't beginnin' to take up with that French minister, air you?"
"Oh no, indeed, Miss Redwood! But he isn't a French minister."
"I don't care what he is," said the housekeeper; "he takes airs; and a minister as takes airs had better be French, I think. What do you go to hear him for, then?"
"Aunt Candy takes me."
"Then you don't go because you want to? that's what I am drivin' at."
"Oh no, indeed I don't, Miss Redwood. I would never go, if I could help myself."
"What harm would happen to you if you didn't?" asked the housekeeper, dryly. But Matilda was distressed and could not tell.
"There is ministers as takes airs," continued the housekeeper sitting up and giving her mop a final wring, "but they can't kind o' help it; it's born with 'em, you may say; it's their natur. It's a pity, but so it is. That's one thing. I'm sorry for 'em, for I think they must have a great load to carry. But when a man goes to bowin' and curchying, outside o' society, and having a tailor of his own to make his coat unlike all other folks, I think I don't want to have him learnmemanners. Folks always takes after their minister—more or less."
"Do you think so?" said Matilda, dubiously.
"Why yes, child. I saidmoreorless;with some of 'em it's a good deal less. Don't you do what Mr. Richmond tells you?"
"I try," said Matilda.
"So I try," said Miss Redwood, getting upon her feet. "La! we all do—a little. It's natur. Don't your aunt, now, take afterherminister?"
"I suppose so," said Matilda, with a sigh.
"Don't you go gettin' into that Frenchman's ways. Mr. Richmond's thumb is worth all there is o'him."
"Miss Redwood," said Matilda, "I want to ask you something."
"Well, why don't you?"
"I want to know if you won't do something for me."
"Talk away," said the housekeeper. "I hear." She went meanwhile getting out the flour and things wanted for the short-cake.
"There's a poor old woman that lives in Lilac Lane; Mrs. Eldridge, her name is."
"Sally Eldridge," said Miss Redwood. "La! I know her. She's poor, as you say."
"You know where she lives?"
"Course I do, child. I know where everybody lives."
"You know she is very poor, and her house wants cleaning, and she hasn't a great many things to be comfortable."
"How come you to know it?" asked the housekeeper.
"I have been there. I have seen her. I know her very well."
"Who took you there?"
"Nobody took me there. I heard about her, and I went to see her."
"You didn't learn that of the French minister."
"But he is not French, Miss Redwood."
"I wisht he was," said the housekeeper. "I say nothin' agin other country people, only to be sorry for 'em; but I get put out o' my patience when I see one of the right stock makin' a fool of himself. Well, honey, what about Mis' Eldridge?"
"I've got some money, Miss Redwood,—somebody gave me some money, to get things for her and do what I like; and Norton Laval and I were going to have her made nice and comfortable. But now Aunt Candy will not let me go there any more, and I can't do what I wanted to do; and I thought—Mr. Richmond thought—maybe you would see to it for me."
"What's to be done?" said the housekeeper.
"Why, first of all, Miss Redwood, her house wants cleaning. It is not fit to put anything nice into it."
"All Lilac Lane wouldn't be the worse of a cleanin'," said the housekeeper; "men and women and all; but I don't know who's to do the cleanin'."
"I thought maybe Sabrina Rogers would do it,—if she was paid, you know. She lives just over the way, and sheispretty clean."
"Kin try," said the housekeeper. "No harm in tryin'. I guess a dollar would fetch her round. Supposin' it was cleaned; what's to do next?"
"Get things, Miss Redwood," said Matilda, looking up at her eagerly. "You know she wants so much. I want to get a bedstead for her, and a decent bed; her bed isn't a bed, and it lies on the floor. And she has no way to wash herself; I want to send her a little washstand, and basin, and pitcher, and towels; and a table for the other room; and a saucepan to cook things in; and some bread, and meat, and sugar, and other things; for she hasn't comfortable things to eat. And one or two calico dresses, you know; she wants them so much."
The child's face grew excitedly eager. There came a glitter in the housekeeper's faded blue eye as it looked down upon her.
"But, honey, all these things'll cost a sight o' money."
"I've got money."
"It'll take all you've got."
"But I want to do what I can, Miss Redwood."
"I kind o' don't think it's right," said the housekeeper. "Why should you go a-spendin' all your little savin's upon Sally Eldridge? And it's only one old woman helped, when all's done; there's lots more. It's somebody else that ought to do it; 'tain't your work, child."
"But I want to do it, Miss Redwood. And I've got the money."
"I wonder how much better she'll be at the end of six months," said the housekeeper. "Well, you want me to take this job in hand, do you?"
"If you can; if you would be so very good."
"You make me feel as mean as water," said the housekeeper. "It'll take me a little while to get up any notion o' my goodness again. I suppose it'll come, with the old pride o' me. I know what the Bible says, but I kind o' didn't think it meant it; and I've been a makin' myself comfortable all my days, or workin' for it, and consolin' my conscience with thinkin' it was no use to helpone;but now yours and mine would make two; and somebody else's would ha' been three. La! child, you make me ashamed o' myself."
"But Miss Redwood," said Matilda, in much surprise, "you are always doing something for somebody; I don't know what you mean."
"Not this way, child," said the housekeeper. "I kind o' thought my money was my own, after I had worked for it."
"Well, so it is."
"And so is your'n your'n; but it looks like as if what was your'n was the Lord's. And to be sure, that's what the minister is always a sayin'; but I kind o' thought it was because he was the minister, and that Sarah Redwood hadn't no call to be just exactly as good as him."
And to Matilda's bewilderment, she saw the corner of Miss Redwood's apron lifted to wipe off a tear.
"Come, child, make your short-cake!" she began with fresh vigour. "There's water to wash your hands. Now we must be spry, or the minister 'll be wanting his tea, and I should feel cheap if it warn't ready. I've got my lesson, for to-day; and now you shall have your'n. I never did want many blows of the hammer to drive a nail into me. Here's an apron for you. Now sift your flour, just as you did for the gingerbread; and we'll have it baking in no time. Short-cake must be made in five minutes, or it'll be heavy; and it must bake almost as quick. Turn it up, dear, with the ends o' your fingers, while I pour the cream in—just toss it round—don't seem to take hold o' nothing—kind o' play with it; and yet you must manage to throw the mixin's together somehow. Yes, that'll do very well, that'll do very well; you've got a real good hand, light and firm. Now bring it together, dear, in one lump, and we'll cut it in two pieces and put it in the pans."
This was done satisfactorily, and the pans were slipped into the hot oven. Matilda washed her hands, and the housekeeper made neat and swift preparations for tea. Everything was so nice about her, her kitchen and pantries were in such a state of order and propriety, and so well supplied too; it was a pleasure to see her go from one to the other and bring out what she wanted. Matilda was allowed to take cups, and plates, and sugar, and butter from her hand, and found it a most enlivening kind of amusement; especially the placing her own plate and knife, and seeing it there on Mr. Richmond's tea-table. Then came the excitement of taking out the short-cake, which had puffed itself up and browned in the most pleasant manner; and then the minister was called out to tea. It was an odd little room, between the study and the kitchen, where they took tea; not big enough for anything but the table and a convenient passage round it. Two little windows looked out over a pleasant field, part of which was cultivated as the parsonage garden, and beyond that, to white palings and neat houses, clustering loosely in pretty village fashion. Among them, facing on the street which bordered the parsonage and church grounds at the back, Matilda could see the brown front of the Academy, where Norton Laval went to school; and trees mingled their green tops with the house roofs everywhere. The sun was going down in the bright western sky, which was still beyond all this, and nothing disagreeable was within sight at all.
"What are you thinking about, Tilly, that you look so hard out of my windows?" the minister asked.
"Nothing, Mr. Richmond. At least—I was thinking, whether you knew Norton. Norton Laval."
"He comes to the Sunday-school, I think. No, I do not know him very well. Do you?"
"Oh yes."
"Is he a nice fellow?"
"He is very nice, Mr. Richmond."
"Does he love the Bible as well as you do?"
"I don't think he knows much about it, Mr. Richmond," Matilda answered, looking wistful.
"If he is a friend of your's, cannot you help him?"
"I do try," said Matilda. "But, Mr. Richmond, you know a boy thinks he knows about things better than I do, or than any girl does."
Mr. Richmond smiled.
"Besides, I can't see him now," Matilda added. "I have no chance." And a cloud came over her face.
"Miss Redwood," said the minister, "do you think you can manage a certain business in Lilac Lane which Matilda had a mind to entrust to you? I suppose you have been consulting about it."
"Does Mr. Richmond think it'll do much good?" was the housekeeper's rejoinder.
"Do I think what will do good?"
"Gettin' a new bedstead and fixin's for Sally Eldridge."
"I don't know what 'fixin's' are, in this connection," said the minister. "I have heard of 'light bread and chicken fixings,' at the South."
"The bread and the chickens are comin' too, for all I know," said the housekeeper. "I mean sheets, and coverlets, and pillows, and decent things. She hain't none now."
"I should think she would sleep better," said the minister, gravely.
"Had this child ought to spend her little treasures for to put that old house in order? It's just sheddin' peas into a basket that has got no bottom to it."
"So bad as that?" said the minister.
"Well, Mr. Richmond knows," the housekeeper went on, "there ain't no end o' the troubles there is in the world, nor yet o' the poverty; and Sally Eldridge, she'll be the better maybe, as long as the things last; but there's all the rest o' Lilac Lane, without speaking of what there is beside in Shadywalk; and the chilld 'll be without her dollars, and the world 'll be pretty much where it was."
"I don't see but that reasoning would stop my preaching, Miss Redwood."
"I don't mean it, sir, I'm sure."
"I don't think you mean what you say. What is the use of giving me a good cup of tea, when so many other people cannot have one at all?"
"The minister knows a cup o' good tea when he sees it," answered the housekeeper.
Mr. Richmond laughed. "But don't you think Sally Eldridge, for instance, would know a good bed?"
"There ain't no possibilities o' makin' some o' them folks keerful and thrivin'," said the housekeeper, firmly. "'Tain't in 'em; and what's the use o' havin' things if folks ain't keerful? Sally Eldridge had her house respectable once; I mind her very well, when she kept the gate at Judge Brockenhurst's big place; and she had wages, and her man he had good wages; and now the peas is all out o' the basket. And is there any use, buyin' more to put in? The basket 'll never be mended. It'll let out as fast as it takes in."
"The basket, as you put it, is out of Sally's hands now," Miss Redwood. "She is one of the helpless ones. Don't you think it would be a good thing to make her life more comfortable? I think we had better take her some of this short-cake, Matilda. Miss Redwood, as for you, I shall expect to hear that you have lamed your arm doing something for her comfort, or half broken your back carrying a heavy basket to Lilac Lane, or something of that sort, judging by what I know of you already."
"I'm willin'," said the housekeeper. "But it ain't this child's business. She hain't no call to give all she's got to Sally Eldridge."
"I suppose," said the minister, with a look at Matilda, which both she and the housekeeper read with their hearts,—"I suppose she is thinking of the word that will be spoken one day, 'Inasmuch as ye did it unto one of the least of these,'—'He that hath pity upon the poor, lendeth to the Lord; and that which he hath given will He pay him again'!"
"Then Mr. Richmond thinks it would be a good use of her money?"
"There might possibly be better; but if it is the best she knows, that is all she can do. I have a great opinion of doing what our hands find to do, Miss Redwood; if the Lord gives other work, He will send the means too."
"There's a frame bedstead lyin' up in the loft," said the housekeeper. "'Tain't no good to any one, and it only wants a new rope to cord it up; perhaps the minister would let Sally have that; and it would save so much."
"By all means, let her have that; and anything else we can spare. Now, Matilda, you and I will go and attend to our other business."
They went back to the study, where the light was growing soft. Mr. Richmond drew up the blinds of the west window and let in the glow and colour from a rich sunset sky. He stood looking at it, with the glow upon his face; and standing so, spoke—
"What was it, Matilda?"
Matilda on her part sat down in a chair, and with a face of childish grave meditation, peered into the great bunch of asparagus with which Miss Redwood had filled the minister's chimney. She sat in shadow all over, and answered as if taking out the very secret burden of her heart for her friend's inspection.
"Mr. Richmond, I can't do Band work any more. I can't do anything. I can't do anything at all. You told us to buy up opportunities; but I have no opportunities now even to buy."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, sir," said the child, slowly. "I am quite sure. I cannot do any work at all. And I would like it so much."
"Wait a bit," said the minister, still looking at the evening glow; "maybe you are too hasty."
"No, sir. Aunt Candy will not let me go out, and I can see nobody."
"Whose servant are you?"
"I am Christ's servant," said the child, softly.
"Well. Being His servant, do you want to do His will, or your own?"
"Why—I want to do His will," Matilda answered, speaking a little slowly.
"Isn't it His will just now that you should be without your old liberty, and unable to do these things you want to do?"
"Yes, sir," Matilda said, rather unwillingly. "I suppose it is."
"Are you willing His will should be done?"
Mr. Richmond had faced round from the window now, and Matilda met his look, and did not answer for a moment.
"Is it His will, Mr. Richmond, that I should have no opportunity to do anything?"
"What do you think? If He had chosen to do it, He could have placed you in the midst of the fullest opportunity. Hehasplaced you under the rule of your aunt. Are you willing His will should be done, and as long as He pleases?"
Matilda looked in her friend's face, but it put the question steadily; and she faltered and burst into tears.
"That is a great question, Tilly," said the minister, kindly. "Is it yourself you want to please? or the Lord Jesus? He can have these outside things done by other people, even if you cannot help in them; but ofyouthe first thing He wants is an obedient child. Will you be obedient? That is, will you agree to His will?"
"Mr. Richmond—must I bewillingto do nothing?" Matilda asked without uncovering her face.
"If the Lord bids you do nothing."
"But I thought—He bade me—do so many things?"
"So He does; and just now the very first and foremost of them is, that you should be content with His will."
The daylight had faded sensibly when the next words were spoken, so many seconds went by before Matilda was ready to speak them.
"Mr. Richmond," she said, after that pause of hidden struggle, "isn't it very hard?"
"It depends upon how much any one loves the Lord, my dear child. The more you love Him, the less you want your own will. But you were never more mistaken in your life, than just now, when you thought He had taken all your opportunities away."
"Why, what opportunities have I, Mr. Richmond?" said Matilda, lifting up her face.
"This, for one. Opportunity to be obedient. The Bible says that Christ, coming here to stand in our place and save us, learned obedience by the things which Hesuffered;and I don't know but we must, too."
Matilda looked very hard at her adviser; it was not easy for her to get at this new thought.
"Cannot you as truly obey, when God says you must be still, as when He says you must work?"
"Yes, sir."
"And in either case, obedience is in the heart—not in the fingers or the tongue. Isn't it so?"
"Yes, sir."
"You see one opportunity, Matilda."
"Yes, sir." The answers were very meek.
"My dear child, is that the only one?"
"I cannot go out, Mr. Richmond."
"No, I understand. But in the house. Have you no opportunities to be patient, for instance?"
"Yes, sir!" and a faint colour rose in Matilda's cheek.
"My child, patience is something that, when God's children show, they always honour Him."
"How, Mr. Richmond?"
"It shows His grace and power in them; for they cannot be truly patient without His help. And then others see it and acknowledge that there is reality in religion, and that God's will is beautiful."
"I never thought of that," said Matilda.
"Have you no opportunity to forgive injuries, or unkindness?"
"Oh yes, Mr. Richmond!" The answer came from some deep place in Matilda's heart.
"Do you use that opportunity well?"
"I don't think I have, Mr. Richmond," said Matilda, looking very sorrowful. "I think, instead, I have been hating my——"
"Yes. Shall that be at an end now?"
"But how can it?" said Matilda. "I get so vexed"—and she wiped away a tear. "I getsovexed, Mr. Richmond!"
"I am very sorry you have occasion. But you cannot forgive peopleunlessyou have occasion."
"How can I then?"
"By going to Jesus, just as the sick people went to Him in the old time, and getting cured, as they did. 'If thou canst believe; all things are possible to him that believeth.'"
Matilda steadied her trembling little lips, and stood listening.
"Haven't you opportunities to do kindnesses?" Mr. Richmond then said, softly. Matilda looked up and bowed her head a little. Perhaps lips were not ready.
"Do you usethemwell?"
"I think not, Mr. Richmond—lately."
"You know, you can do kindness indoors as well as out of doors, and to disagreeable people as well as to nice people. We are commanded to be followers of God, as dear children."
The tears gathered again.
"See how much kindness you can do. No matter whether it is deserved or not. That is no part of the question. And have you not opportunity to learn something?"
"I am not going to school," said Matilda.
"Nor learning anything at home?"
"Not much. Not much that is good for anything."
"Never mind. You can do that for God."
"Oh no, Mr. Richmond; it is not useful enough."
"You do not know how useful it may be."
"Yes, sir, because it isn't that sort of thing. Aunt Candy is making me learn to mend lace. It is no use at all."
"I'll tell you a secret," said Mr. Richmond. Matilda looked up with fresh eagerness into his face.
"Whenever the Lord puts you in the way of learning anything, you may be sure He means you to learn it. He knows the use; and if you neglect the chance, the next thing will be, you will find He will give you work to do which you cannot do, because you neglected to learn what He gave you to learn."
"But mending lace?" said Matilda.
"I don't care what it is. Yes, mending lace. I don't know what use you will find for that accomplishment, and you don't; all the same, youwillknow, when the time comes; and then you will be very sorry and mortified to find yourself unable for the work given you, if you despised your opportunity of preparation. And then it will be too late to mend that, as well as the lace."
"And is that true of all sorts of things, Mr. Richmond?"
"Of all sorts of things. Whenever the Lord puts a chance of learning something in your way, you may be quite sure He has a use and a meaning in it. He has given it to you to do."
"Then all my learning to cook, and do things about the house?"
"Yes," said Mr. Richmond, smiling. "It is not difficult to see a use for that; is it?"
"No, sir—I suppose not," the child said, thoughtfully.
"Have you not opportunities for being thankful too, in the midst of all these other things?"
"Yes, Mr. Richmond."
But the child stood looking at him with a wistful, intent face, and wide-open, thoughtful eyes; so sober, and so eager, and so pitiful, that it made an unconscious plea to the minister's heart.
"Come," said he; "we have so much to say to our Lord, let us say it."
And they kneeled down, and Mr. Richmond put all Matilda's heart into a prayer for her, and some of his own.
"I must go now, Mr. Richmond," Matilda said presently after. But she said it with a much more cheerful tone.
"I shall want to hear how you get on," said Mr. Richmond. "When will you take tea with me again?"
"Oh, I don't know, sir. Aunt Candy is always at home."
"And keeps you there?"
"Yes, sir. Lately. She didn't at first."
"Well, I must see about that. I think you must be allowed to come and see me, at all events. Perhaps you do not know, Matilda, that your mother in almost the last hour of her life asked me to take care of you."
"Did she?" Matilda exclaimed, with a wonderful change of voice and manner.
"Yes. She did. In your aunt's presence."
"And you will, Mr. Richmond?" said the child, a little timidly.
"And I will—while I live myself."
"Then Icancome and see you, Mr. Richmond?"
"I think you can. I will see about it."
Matilda gave her friend a good night which was almost joyous, and then ran out to the kitchen.
"Miss Redwood," she said, "did you change your mind again about Mrs. Eldridge? I thought you agreed, and that you were going to do all that for me."
"No, child; I hain't changed my mind. I changed it oncet, you know, to come over to you. I never did go both ways, like a crab."
"But you said at tea——"
"Well, I wished the minister'd tell you to keep your money to hum. 'Tain'tyourwork, as I can see, to fit out Sally Eldridge with notions; it's like enough it's mine, and I'm willin' to take it, and do it, and see to it. You put your money by, child, against a wet day. Maybe you'll want it yet."
"Don't you remember, Miss Redwood, what Mr. Richmond repeated at tea?—'the Lord will pay it again?'"
"Well," said the housekeeper, "let the pay come to me, then."
"No," said Matilda, "that won't do. It's my business, Miss Redwood, and I asked you to do it for me; and I'll give you the money. How much do you want?"
"I hain't bought the things yet; I don' know; and some of 'em won't have to be bought, with a little contrivance. I'll spend the least I kin; and then we'll talk about it."
Matilda gave her an energetic kiss and hurried away. But I am afraid the housekeeper's apron went up to her eyes again.