The experience of the morning certainly was rather scattering in its tendency, as far as any sober thought or work was concerned. The young people were brimful of life and fun and excitement; and it was not possible for Matilda to escape the infection. Nevertheless after lunch she had firmness enough left to put on her coat and hat and trudge off to Sunday school by herself. Norton said he had not "slept out," and would not go. Matilda went, with her little watch safe in her breast.
Getting out into the cold air and setting her feet upon the snowy streets, had somewhat the effect of breaking a spell. For a while, that seemed now a very long while, Matilda had been in a whirl of expectation and pleasure and in a kind of dream of enchantment; nothing but soft luxury and visions of delight and one thing after another to make the child think she had got into very fairyland. But the streets outside were not fairyland; and the sharp air pinched her cheek with a grip which was not tender or flattering at all. The sense began to come back to Matilda that everybody was not having such rose-coloured dreams as she, nor living in summer-heated rooms. Nay, she saw children that were ill dressed, on their way like her; some who were insufficiently dressed; a multitude who were not nicely dressed; the contrast was very unpleasant, and a certain feeling of uneasiness and of responsibility and of desire to make other people comfortable crept over her anew. Then she remembered that she could not reach many, she could not do much; and she came into school and took her seat at last with a concentrated desire to do at least something effectual towards rescuing Sarah Staples from her miserable circumstances. After the lesson was done and the scholars were dismissed, Matilda asked Mr. Wharncliffe if she could speak to him?
"Is it a minute's work? or several minutes?" he inquired.
"I don't know, sir; I think, several minutes."
"Then wait a minute, and we will walk home together."
Matilda liked that, and presently in the clear late light of the waning winter afternoon, she and her teacher sallied forth into the street hand in hand.
"Now what is it?" he asked.
"About Sarah, Mr. Wharncliffe."
"Well? What about her?"
"I have been thinking a great deal, Mr. Wharncliffe, how to manage it; because I had not a great deal of money myself, and I did not know whether I could get help or no; but now I think Ishallhave some help; and I wanted to consult you to know what I had best do."
"What do you want to do?"
"First, I want to get her out of that dreadful place into a comfortable room somewhere."
"Suppose you do it, how is she going to stay in it?"
"What do you mean, sir?"
"The rent of such a room as you speak of would be, say seventy-five cents or a dollar a week. How are Sarah and her mother to pay that?"
"O I should have to pay it for them. I could do that, I think."
"For how long?"
Matilda looked at her teacher and did not immediately answer. She had not looked ahead so far as that.
"It is necessary to take all things into consideration," he said, answering her look. "You would not wish to put Sarah and her mother into a place of comfort for a little while, merely to let them fall out of it again?"
"O no, sir!"
"How are they to be maintained in it?"
Matilda pondered.
"I could take care of the rent, I think, I meanwecould, for a while; for a year, perhaps; by that time couldn't they pay it, don't you think?"
"How?"
"By their work; by their earnings."
"But now, and for a long time past, their work has not enabled them to pay for anything better than they have got."
"Couldn't they do something better, Mr. Wharncliffe? something else? that would give them more money?"
"What work could you help them to, that would pay better?"
"I don't know, sir," said Matilda, looking up wistfully in her teacher's face. "I don't know anything about such things. Canyoutell me? What work is there that they could get. What the other poor people do?"
"There are other things," said Mr. Wharncliffe thoughtfully. "There are better and better paying sorts of sewing; what Mrs. Staples does is very coarse, and she gets very little for it. But machine work now-a-days puts hand work at a disadvantage."
"What is machine work, sir?"
"Work done on a sewing machine. With a machine a woman can do I suppose, ten times as much in a day, and with more ease to herself."
"Well, wouldn't Mrs. Staples work on a machine?"
"I do not know. I think she used to take in washing once. She could do that again, if she had a better room and conveniences."
"And does that pay better?"
"I believe so. Indeed I am sure."
"Then she might do washing," said Matilda; "and Sarah might sew on a machine, Mr. Wharncliffe."
"She has not got one, you know."
"If we could get her one? Wouldn't that be nice, Mr. Wharncliffe?"
"My dear child, a good sewing machine costs a good deal of money."
"Butifwe could, Mr. Wharncliffe? I saidif."
"Nothing could be better. Perhaps, by and by, it might be managed. In the mean time, Sarah might learn, and possibly get work; or get a machine and pay for it gradually by doing work for the makers. Such arrangements are made."
"How much does a sewing machine cost?"
"From forty five to sixty dollars."
"Forty five," repeated Matilda gravely. "But, Mr. Wharncliffe, in the first place the thing to do is to get them out of that place into a new room. Might we not do that? and don't you think the rest can be managed, somehow?"
"If we do that, the restmustbe managed, if possible. It is always greater kindness and a far greater benefit, Matilda, to help poor people to take care of themselves, than to save them that care."
"Why, sir?"
"People are better and happier and stronger, working for their living and earning it, and keeping the sense of independence, than they are when living on the money of other people and losing their own self-respect. That is very ruinous to character. Avoid it always, in all your efforts to help people."
"Yes, I see," said Matilda thoughtfully. "But, Mr. Wharncliffe, Sarah and her mother cannot do anything to get in a better way while they live in that cellar. They want some help just at first. Don't they?"
"Certainly; and I think we have struck the right line of action to pursue for them. Help to put them in the way of being comfortably independent, is just what they want."
"Then the first thing is a lodging," said Matilda, with a relieved and brightening face. "How can we find one, Mr. Wharncliffe? I don't want them to know about it till we get it all settled and ready for them to move into."
"Ready for them?" said Mr. Wharncliffe inquiringly.
"Yes, sir; you know they have nothing to put into a nice room now, if they had one."
"Aren't you laying plans beyond your means?"
"Beyondmine;but I shall have some help. I don't know exactly how much, but some."
"Well, you will let me help too if necessary," said the gentleman. "And I will look out for a lodging."
"O thank you! Will you, sir?"
"To be sure. That is one way I am going to help."
"And when you have found one, you will let me know?"
"Whom else? Certainly, I will. I shall take no step without your direction."
"O thank you, sir!" said Matilda again.
They had been walking up the Avenue during this talk, to have uninterrupted time for it; now they had turned about to come home. Clear and bright and cold the sun was leaving the streets and lingering about the house roofs and chimneys; and the steeples of churches were shining marks of light on one side, on the other dark spires against the western sky. Mr. Wharncliffe and Matilda quickened their steps, which the frosty air made it pleasant to do. She supposed that the subject of their conversation was ended for the present, and so was somewhat surprised to hear the next question from her companion. It came out after some little pause.
"Matilda what has put this in your head?"
"This we have been talking of? Why I wanted to make Sarah comfortable. I could not bear to have her in that dreadful place. Mr. Wharncliffe, don't you think it is dreadful?"
"I do think it is dreadful; and your feeling very natural. Then you want to go to this expense and trouble for the comfort of knowing that she is comfortable?"
"I think so," said Matilda, somewhat puzzled. "I could not bear to think of her there."
"All perfectly right, Matilda," said her friend smiling. "I only want, while you are taking care of Sarah, to take care of you."
"How, sir?"
"There are so many ways in which good things may be done; and I wish you to take the best."
"What ways do you mean, sir? I do not understand."
"There is one way of doing kind things, merely or chiefly to save one's self from the uncomfortable feeling that the sight of misery gives. Kind people of that sort are benevolent in spots, just when they see or hear of something that touches them, and never at any other time. Others do kind things because they like to have a name for generosity, and giving money costs them nothing."
Matilda looked inquiringly up in Mr. Wharncliffe's face. "It made me very uncomfortable to see Sarah in that place," she said; "and to think of her in it."
"A third sort of kindness," Mr. Wharncliffe went on smiling, "is done because people love the Lord Jesus, and so love all whom he loves, and like to do the work he wants done."
"But it makes them feel badly to see people suffering?" said Matilda.
"Undoubtedly. They are the tenderest of all. But they will do as much for people they never saw, as for those at hand; and their spring of kindness never dries up. It is a perpetual flow. When they do not see objects on which to spend it, they seek them out."
Matilda pondered matters a little. Then she lifted a very honest face towards her companion.
"Which reason did you think made me want to do this for Sarah, sir?"
"I wantedyouto think about it."
"Don't you think, Mr. Wharncliffe, it is very difficult to find out really why one does things?"
"Very difficult," said Mr. Wharncliffe with a comical drawing of his lips; "but very useful."
"I do notthink," began Matilda again, very gravely, "I do notthinkmy wanting to do this for Sarah was just to make myself feel comfortable."
"I do not think it, my child; but it is no harm to have your attention directed to the question. In all such matters, keep your action pure; let every thing be done for Christ, and then it will be all right. For instance, Matilda, when the real motive is self, or when there is no higher at work, one is easily tempted to do too much in a given case; to indulge one's self with great effects and astonishing liberality; when, if it were simply for Christ, one would be moderate and simple and prudent, and keep a due proportion in things."
"Yes," said Matilda looking puzzled,—"I understand. You will help me keep a 'proper proportion' in what I do for Sarah Staples, Mr. Wharncliffe?"
"How much are you thinking of doing?"
"I want to get her into a comfortable room," said Matilda. "That is first. Then—they have no furniture, Mr. Wharncliffe?"
"You want to get them some?"
"Would that be too much? a little? common things, of course, but what they cannot be comfortable without."
"How much money do you propose to spend on Sarah at this time?"
"I do not know. I know about how much I have, but I can't tell yet how much help I shall get. I want to do whatoughtto be done."
The last words were said with such an accent of earnest determination, that Mr. Wharncliffe again had almost smiled at his scholar; but he did not. He went on quite gravely:—
"A room and some necessary furniture, I should think, could be managed."
"Then we want to get them into a way of earning more."
"Yes. I will see about that. And about the room. And I can get what you want in furniture, at a second hand place, where the articles will cost very little."
"That's good," said Matilda. "Well, Mr. Wharncliffe, allthatwill not be too much?"
"I think not."
Matilda hesitated, and then added doubtfully, "Don't you think they want clean dresses?"
Mr. Wharncliffe smiled now.
"Where shall we stop?" said he.
"But they are very—uncomfortable," said Matilda, after waiting to choose a word. Her teacher thought for a minute of Sarah's well-worn, faded, lank, best dress, and how little evidently there was under it to keep the child warm, and his brow grew very sober indeed, and his blue eye misty.
"I'll not check you, Matilda," he said, "unless I see you going to some great extravagance. Go on, and I'll help, and we'll try to make one bad spot at least a little better. Good-bye!"
With a smile and a nod he parted from her at her own door, and Matilda ran up the steps and ran in with a whole little gale of pleasure freshening through her heart.
There was a gale of another sort blowing through the house that evening, and making the household lively. Pleasure was not wanting to it, though it was pleasure of another sort and largely mixed with excitement. The three other young ones were full of plans for the holiday week, reminiscences of the last evening, comparison and discussion of presents, and of people. Matilda in the midst of them listened and was amused, and thought of her gold watch and of Sarah with great secret throbs of delight in her heart.
"So you were the witch, grandmother," said Norton. "I knew it. I was sure of it. What did you do it for?"
"Do what, boy?"
"Take up a witch's trade?"
"I have not laid it down yet."
"No, ma'am; but what put it in your head?"
"I wanted my share of the fun," said the old lady.
"Did you get it, grandmamma?" asked David.
"Yes. A very good share."
"Did you ask everybody such questions as you asked us?" Norton inquired.
"I did not want to know the same thing about all of you."
"No, ma'am. Did you find out a good deal, grandmother?"
But Mrs. Lloyd laughed and declined to answer.
"There is something more I want to find out," she said. "I want to know what makes this little girl look so happy. She doesn't say a word, but her smiles speak for her!"
"Who, Matilda?" said Norton.
"It's easy enough to be smiling," said Judy with slight scorn.
"You might practise it then a little, and do no hurt," remarked Norton.
"Nobody ought to be always smiling," returned Judy. "It's vulgar. And it doesn't mean anything, either."
"Hush, Judy," said her mother.
"What were you smiling about, Matilda?" Mrs. Lloyd asked.
"A great many things I was thinking of, ma'am."
But the little girl's face was so gleeful as she answered, and the smile and the sparkle were so pleasant, that the old lady's curiosity was raised.
"A great many things?" she repeated, "Agreat manythings to be glad of? I should like to know what they are. Come, I will make a bargain with you. I will give you a silver penny for your thoughts; and my silver penny shall be a golden half-eagle."
"For mythoughts, ma'am?" said Matilda, half bewildered; while the other young ones burst out like a pack of hounds after their leader.
"A half-eagle," Mrs. Lloyd repeated, "forallyour thoughts; if you will give me them all. I want to know all the things you are feeling so glad about."
"Grandmamma, you'll do as much for me?" cried Judy. "Only, mine will take an eagle to bring them down. They fly high. You might have bought hers, I am confident, for a duck or a pigeon."
"I should like to make a bargain too, grandmother," said Norton; "if you are in that mood."
"Do you think your thoughts are worth anything?" said his grandmother;—"to anybody but yourself?"
"Whose are?" said David.
"Mine are not," said Matilda. She had flushed high, for she saw that the old lady was in earnest; and five dollars was a good deal to her just now.
"Everything is worth what it will fetch, though," said David. "I advise you to close with the offer, Matilda. Five dollars is five dollars, you know."
Matilda's eyes went doubtfully to Mrs. Lloyd.
"Yes," said the old lady smiling. "I will stand to my part of the bargain, if you will stand to yours. But mind, I wantall."
"There were so many things," Matilda began; "it would take me a good while to tell them."
"Never mind; we have nothing better to do," said Mrs. Lloyd. "We are at leisure."
"Time's nothing," said Norton, in great amusement.
"At ten dollars or so an hour," added David.
Poor Matilda was in some difficulty. She was furnishing the entertainment of the whole circle; for even Mrs. Bartholomew put down her paper, and Mrs. Laval was smiling, and Mrs. Lloyd was waiting, and the children were all open-eyed. But she had nothing to be ashamed of; and five dollars!—
"I was feeling glad about my watch," she began, "and about my picture—O so very glad! I think they have hardly been out of my mind all day."
"Picture? what picture?" said Judy.
"Hush!" said her grandmother.
"She didn't have any picture!" Judy went on. Matilda looked at her and said nothing.
"Did you?" said Judy. "What was it? Is it in a locket?"
"You can attend to her afterwards, Matilda," said Mrs. Lloyd. "At present you are engaged with me. There is nobody here but you and me."
Matilda sincerely wished it had been so; but she had several curious pairs of ears listening to her.
"Then I was glad, I believe, about all the pleasure of last night, and the Christmas tree, and my other presents; but that wasn't all. To-day has been so very pleasant, and this afternoon particularly."
"This afternoon!" cried Judy. "Why she was away at that horrid Sunday school."
"She don't think it is horrid," said Norton, displeased.
"You don't mean she shall get through what she has to say," remarked David.
"If you would all hold your tongues, there would be some chance," said Mrs. Lloyd. "Try again, Matilda. Was there more? What made the afternoon so pleasant?"
"It always is at that school," said Matilda. "But besides that, this afternoon I believe I got some help for something I want to do; and thinking about that, and about what I want to do, was part of I what was feeling so glad about."
"Well if that isn't a confused statement of facts!" said Judy. "Feeling so glad about,—when?"
"When Mrs. Lloyd asked me what I was smiling at."
"But I am to have your thoughts, you know," said Mrs. Lloyd, with a rather pleasant smile. "You have not told me yetwhatit is you want to do, the thought of which is so agreeable."
"I did tell it, to the witch last night," said Matilda. "Do you want me to tell it again, now, ma'am?"
"Certainly. You don't think I am a witch, do you?"
On that point Matilda did not give her thoughts; but as desired, she told the story, briefly, of Sarah and her home, and of the reforms proposed in the latter. The attention of her hearers was marked, although most of them indeed had known the matter before.
"What was there in all this to make you so very glad?" inquired Judy.
Matilda hesitated, and could not find what to say.
"Pink has her own ways of being happy you see," Norton remarked.
"She is not the only one, I hope," said David.
"The only one, what?" said Judy sharply. "You are as bad as she is, David, to-night, for talking thick."
"Have we got through, my dear?" inquired Mrs. Lloyd kindly.
"Through all the things that were making me feel glad?" said Matilda. "No, ma'am—not quite." And she stopped and flushed.
"Let us have it," said Mrs. Lloyd. "A bargain is a bargain."
"Yes, ma'am," said Matilda. "I am afraid—I was afraid—perhaps you wouldn't understand me. I was glad of all these things;—and then, I thought, I was so glad that I knew about Jesus; and that I am his child; and that he has given me all these other things to be glad about, and this work to do for Sarah!"
There was a profound silence for a minute or two. Judy was astonished out of speech. David, perhaps, disgusted. Norton was a little proud that Matilda had independence enough to dare to speak out, even if he chafed a little under the subject of her plain speaking. The elder ladies looked at one another with an odd expression in their eyes. When Mrs. Lloyd spoke she went back to the practical question.
"How much money do you expect it will take, to do what you want for these poor people, Matilda?"
"I don't know, ma'am, yet. My teacher will find out and tell me."
"Is it your teacher who has suggested the plan?"
"The plan?—O no, ma'am," said Matilda. "It is my plan. I have been talking him into it."
"Who is he?" Mrs. Lloyd asked.
"Mr. Wharncliffe."
"What Wharncliffe? Is he any connection of General Wharncliffe?"
"His brother," said Norton.
This seemed, Matilda did not know why, to give satisfaction to her elders. Mrs. Lloyd went on with an unbent face.
"How much money have you got, Matilda, to work with?"
"Not a great deal, ma'am; I have saved a little. It won't take such averygreat deal to get all I want. It is only common things."
"Saved!" Judy burst out. "Saved!Now we have got at it. This is the secret.Thisis why we are such good temperance people and think it's wicked to buy liqueur glasses. O yes! we save our money that way, no doubt."
"Judy," said her brother, "I'm ashamed of you."
"No need," said Judy coolly. "Keep it for yourself, next occasion."
"What is all this?" said Mrs. Lloyd.
"Nothing that had better go any further," said Mrs. Laval. "Nothing of any consequence, mother."
"It is of no consequence," said Judy, "because David and Norton made it up."
"And Judy didn't," said Norton.
"Not I; it was your affair," said the young lady. "My connections are not given to saving."
"That is very true indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Bartholomew, bursting out into a laugh; "and you, Judy, least of all your 'connections.'"
"But what is all this?" repeated Mrs. Lloyd, seeing that the faces around her were moved by very various sorts of expression. It had to come out. Judy and Norton told the story between them, with some difficulty. Matilda felt very sorry, and very doubtful of the effect. David looked exceedingly dissatisfied. Mrs. Lloyd listened with unchanged gravity.
"There! you may call it what you like," Judy said in conclusion. "But I like to have things go by their right names."
"It wouldn't be always best for you," said her brother.
"Do you think it is wrong, my dear, to drink wine?" Mrs. Lloyd asked, addressing Matilda.
Matilda did not well know what to answer. She, a child, what business had she to 'think' anything about the right or the wrong of things done by people so much older and wiser than herself? And yet, that did not change the truth, and the truth was what she must answer.
"I have promised not to do it," she said, almost shrinkingly.
"That affects your own drinking or not drinking. Do you think it is wrong for other people?"
Again Matilda hesitated. She would have welcomed almost any interruption of Judy's; but this time Judy kept as still as a mouse. And so did everybody else. Matilda's colour came and went.
"If you please, ma'am," she said at last, "I don't want to say what you will think rude."
"I will not think it rude," said Mrs. Lloyd with a little laugh. "I want to know what notion such a child as you has got in her head.Doyou think it is wrong?"
"Yes, ma'am," Matilda-answered softly.
"Hear her!" cried Judy. "She has got an idea that wine is money in another form, and heavy to drink."
Matilda thought that Judy had unwittingly put her very meaning into the words; but she did not say so.
"My dear," said Mrs. Lloyd, "I have drunk wine all my life. It has never hurt me."
Matilda was silent.
"Is that your notion, that it is unwholesome?"
"No, ma'am."
"What then?"
"People take too much of it," said Matilda; "and it ruins them; and if all good people would let it alone, wouldn't it help to make the rest let it alone?"
"Insufferable piggishness!" said Mrs. Bartholomew. "You must excuse me, Zara. I hope you will teach your adopted child better manners, arid get rid of a little of this superb folly."
"I am not so sure about the folly," said Mrs. Laval.
"I am sure about the manners," said Mrs. Lloyd. "She has said nothing but what I have made her say. Now, my dear, you have fulfilled your part of the bargain between us, and I will do my part."
The old lady produced a gold five dollar piece from her purse and put it in Matilda's hand. Then drawing the child kindly towards her, she added,
"And from this time you must call me grandmamma, will you? as the others do; and I will call you my grandchild."
She kissed the astonished Matilda, and the subject was dismissed. At least by the elders; the young people did not so easily let it drop. No sooner were they by themselves than Judy held forth in a long tirade, about "presumption" and "artfulness" and "underhand ways;" waxing warm as she went on; till Norton was provoked to answer, and the debate between them grew hot. Matilda said never a word, nor did David; she kept outwardly very quiet; but an hour after, if anybody could have seen her he would have seen a little figure cuddled down in a corner of her own room and weeping abundant tears. So ended the Christmas Sunday and the Christmas festival.
There were too many pleasant things on hand for Judy's behaviour to have any very lasting effect on Matilda's spirits, besides that a good share of independence was one of her valuable characteristics. With the new light of Monday morning, her heart leapt up anew at thought of all the comfort preparing for Sarah and at her growing stock of means for the same. She got out her purse and counted her money. With the new gold piece there was a nice little sum; not enough indeed, but Matilda had hopes of David, and hopes floating and various, that somehow what was needful would be forthcoming when the time came.
The week was about half gone, when one afternoon David came to Matilda's door and knocked. Matilda had shut herself up to write a letter to Maria, and opened the door to David with a good deal of surprise and pleasure. The second time, this was. He came in and sat down.
"Where do you think I have been?" said he.
"To see Sarah?" said Matilda eagerly.
"You are quick," said David smiling. "No, I have not been to see Sarah exactly; but I have been to see where she lives and all about her."
"Did you see where she lives?"
"Yes."
"David, isn't it horrid?"
"It's disgusting!" said David.
"But she can't help it," said Matilda, again eagerly.
"No, she can't, but somebody ought to help it. There ought not to be any such horror possible in such a city as this."
"So I think. Butwhoought to help it, David? How could anybody help it?"
"There used to be a way among my people," said the boy proudly. "The corners of the cornfields, and the last of the grapes on the vines, and the dropped ears of corn, and the last beatings of the olives, were commanded to be left for the poor."
"But there are no vines nor cornfields nor oliveshere," said Matilda.
"Nothing so good," replied David. "I believe people grow wicked in cities."
"Then do you think it is wicked to build cities?"
"I don't know about that," said David; "that's another matter. Without cities a great many good things would be impossible."
"Would they? what?" said Matilda.
"Well, commerce, you know; without great centres of commerce, there could not be great commerce; and there would not be great fortunes then; and without great for tunes there could not be the grand things in music and painting and sculpture and architecture and books, that there are now."
What "great centres of commerce" might be, Matilda could not tell; and she did not like to ask David too many questions. She suddenly came out with an objection.
"But Abraham did not live in a city."
David started, looked at her, and then laughed a little.
"Abraham! no, he did not; and he was a rich man; butonerich man here and there could not do those things I spoke of."
"Then, wouldn't it be better there should be no cities?" said Matilda.
"Better than what? Better than have cities with such dreadful poor people? Can't have the good without the bad, I suppose."
"You said, people grow wicked in cities."
"Well, they do."
"Then ought people to build cities?"
"I don't know how the world would get on, at that rate," said David smiling. "Anyhow the cities are built; and we are living in one; and one corner house in it gives you and me as much as we can do."
"A single room in it, David."
"Yes. Well, you know you consulted a witch the other night."
"Did I?" said Matilda.
"The witch gave me orders to search into your matter. I have done it, and told her what I had found; and she has commissioned me to deliver to you—this."
So saying, David produced a little gold piece, the very mate to the one Matilda had earned by telling her thoughts.
"O David!" Matilda exclaimed,—"O David!"
"Well?" said David smiling. "What?"
"I am getting so much!"
"You will want it."
"But I don't see how it should take such averygreat deal of money just to do this little thing," said Matilda; and she went on to explain Mr. Wharncliffe's propositions and helping agency. Before she had well got through, Norton dashed in.
"Hallo! David here? All the better. Isn't she a jewel of a witch, David?"
David looked up with a responsive twinkle in his eye; and Matilda asked what he meant.
"Mean?" said Norton, "I mean the witch. You went to see the witch, Pink; haven't you heard from her?"
"Yes! just this minute; but Norton, I don't know what you expected to hear. What have you heard?"
"Glorious!" cried Norton, swinging his cap joyously. "We've got that little room, Pink, for a greenhouse; and a stove in it for cold nights; and shelves and benches and frames and all those things I'll put up my self; andthenwe'll have a show of flowers. Your hyacinths will do a great deal better up there."
"Will they?" said Matilda. "They are doing very nicely here; and they look nicely."
"Now we can do all we've a mind to, Pink. I'll have some amaryllis roots right off; and japonicas,japonicas, Pink; and everything you like. Geraniums, and Bovardias, and Azaleas, and Cacti; and Cyclamens; and Cassia and Arbutillon. Fuchsias too, and what you like!"
"Why that little room will not hold everything," said Matilda. "Can't you have some roses?"
"Roses? O yes, and carnations; everything you like. Yes, it will hold everything. Lots of tulips, too."
"How about the money?" David asked.
"It don't take a fortune to stock a little greenhouse."
"You haven't got a fortune."
"I have got enough."
"Have anything left for other objects?"
"What objects?" said Norton. "I haven't but one object at present. One's enough."
"But Matilda has an object too," David said smiling enough to show his white teeth; "and her object will want some help, I'm thinking."
"What object?" said Norton.
"Don't you remember? I told you, Norton, about Sarah"—
"Othat!" said Norton with a perceptible fall of his mental thermometer. "That's all your visions, Pink; impracticable; fancy. The idea of you, with your little purse, going into the mud of New York, and thinking to dean the streets."
"Certainly," said David, "and so she wauls a little help from our purses, don't you see?"
"David Bartholomew!" Norton burst out, "you know as well as I do, that it is no sort of use to try that game. Just go look at the mud; it will take all we could throw into it, and never shew."
"No," said David; "we could clear up a little corner, I think, if we tried."
"You!" cried Norton. "Areyouat that game?Youturned soft suddenly?"
"Do no harm, that I see," replied David composedly.
"These people aren't your people," said Norton.
"They are your people," said David.
"They are not! I have nothing to do with them, and it is no use—Davie Bartholomew, youknowit's no use—to try to help them. Pink is so tender-hearted, she wants to help the whole world; and it's all very well for her to want it; but she can't; and I can't; and you can't."
"But we can help Sarah Staples," Matilda ventured.
"And then you may go on to help somebody else, and then somebody else; and there's no end to it; only there's this end, that you'll always be poor yourself and never be able to do anything you want to do."
Norton was unusually heated, and both his hearers were for a moment silenced.
"You know that's the truth of it, Davie," he went on; "and it's no use to encourage Pink to fancy she can comfort everybody that's in trouble, and warm everybody that is cold, and feed everybody that is hungry, because she just can't do it. You can tell her there isno endto that sort of thing if she once tries it on. Suppose we all went to work at it. Just see where we would be. Where would be Pink's gold watch, and her picture? and where would be her gold bracelet? and where would my greenhouse be? And where would this house be, for that matter? and the furniture in it? and how should we all dress? Your mother wouldn't wear velvet dresses, that you like so much; and mine wouldn't wear that flimsy muslin stuff that she likes so much; and grandmamma's lace shawl would never have been mended, for it never would have been here to get burnt. It's all a lot of nonsense, that's what it is."
"There is law about it, though," David began again gravely.
"Law?" Norton echoed.
"The law of my people."
"O what is it, David?" cried Matilda; while Norton was grumly silent. He did not want to debate David's Jewish law with him. David gave the words very readily.
"'When there is with thee any needy one of one of thy brethren, in one of thy cities, in thy land which Jehovah thy God is giving to thee, thou dost not harden thy heart, nor shut thy hand from thy needy brother; for thou dost certainly open thy hand to him, and dost certainly lend him sufficient for his lack which he lacketh.'"
"That says what the people would do—not what theyoughtto do," said Norton.
"I beg your pardon; it is a strong way of saying, in the Hebrew, what theymustdo. Listen. 'Thou dost certainly give to him, and thy heart is not sad in thy giving to him, for because of this thing doth Jehovah thy God bless thee in all thy works, and in every putting forth of thine hand; because the needy one doth not cease out of the land, therefore I am commanding thee, saying, Thou dost certainly open thy hand to thy brother, to thy poor, and to thy needy one, in thy land.'"
Matilda was thinking of other words, which she dared not bring forward; being in a part of her Bible which David did not like. Neither was it necessary. Norton had got quite enough, she could see. He was in a state of fume, privately.
"I am going to give one side of the green house to you," he said, turning to Matilda. "Now you have got to think and find out what you will put in it. I shall have the shelves and all ready by the end of the week; and next week, Pink,—next week!—we must put the plants in; because the winter is going on, you know."
The conclave broke up, to go upstairs and look at the new greenhouse. Norton explained his arrangements; the oil-cloth he was going to put on the floor, the rising banks of green shelves, the watering and syringing and warming of the little place; till Matilda almost smelt the geranium leaves before they were there.
"Now, Pink, what will you have on your side?"
"I can't give more than a dollar to it, Norton," said Matilda very regretfully.
"A dollar! Adollar, Pink? A dollar will get you two or three little geraniums. What's to become of the rest of your shelves?"
"I shall have to give them back to you, I'm afraid."
"You've got money, plenty."
"But I can't spend it for plants."
"Because you are going to throw it into the mud, Pink? O no, you'll not do that. I'll give you a catalogue of plants, and you shall look it over; and you will find a dollar won't do much, I can tell you. And then you will see what you want."
He was as good as his word; and Matilda sipped her glass of water and eat her sponge cake at tea time between the pages of a fascinating pamphlet, which with the delights it offered almost took away her breath, and quite took away the taste of the sponge cake. Norton looked over her shoulder now and then, well pleased to see his charm working.
"Yellowcarnations?" cried Matilda.
"I don't like them best, though," said Norton. "There,that—La purité—that's fine; and the striped ones, Pink; those double heads, just as full as they can be, and just as sweet as they can be, and brilliant carmine and white—those are what I like."
Matilda drew a long breath and turned a leaf.
"Violets!" she exclaimed.
"Do you like them?"
"Violets? Why, Norton, I don't like any thing better! I don't think I do. Dear little sweet things!theydo not cost much?"
"No," said Norton, "they do not cost much; and they don't make much show, neither."
"But they don't take much room."
"No; and you want things thatdotake room, to fill your shelves. The greenhouse ought to be all one mass of green and bloom all round."
Matilda heaved another sigh and turned another leaf.
"I don't know anything about tuberoses," she said. "Primroses? what are they like? 'A thousand flowers often from one plant!' what are they like, Norton?"
"Like?" said Norton. "I don't know what they are like."
"I'll tell you," said Judy, who as usual was pleasing herself with a cup of strong coffee; "they are like buttercups come to town and grown polished."
"They are not in the least like buttercups!" said Norton.
"That's what I said," replied Judy coolly; "they have left off their country ways, and don't wear yellow dresses."
Matilda thought it was best to take no notice, so with another crumb of sponge cake she turned over to the next flower in the catalogue.
"What are Bouvardias? I don't know anything about them."
"Of course," said Judy. "Not to be expected."
"Do you want to take care of your own flowers yourself, Pink?" inquired Norton; "or do you mean to have me do it?"
"Why, I will do it, I suppose."
"Then you had better leave the Bouvardias to me. They are a little particular about some things."
"Are they handsome?"
"Wait till you see. Splendid! You'll see, when I get them a going. We'll have just a blaze of them."
"A blaze?" said Matilda. "What colour?"
"Flame colour, and scarlet, and white, and splendid crimson."
"Heliotrope. O I like heliotrope," Matilda went on.
"You can have those," said Norton. "They're sweet and easy. And we must have them, of course, on one side or the other. Begonias—those you might have, too."
"Hyacinths I have got," said Matilda.
"Yes, but you will want more, now that you have room for them."
"Azaleas—O azaleas are lovely," said Matilda. "They are showy too; and you want a show, Norton."
"So do you, Pink."
"Well, I like azaleas," said Matilda. "Do they cost much?"
"Not so very. I guess you can have some."
"O what a geranium!" Matilda exclaimed. "'Lady James Vick'—'seventy-five cents each'—but what a lovely colour, Norton! O I like geraniums next best to roses, I believe."
"You must go to another catalogue for your roses," said Norton.
"That is beautiful! I never saw such a colour. These roses are better yet."
"You can't have roses enough in bloom at once. We want other things to help make up the blaze of colour there ought to be. But that's easy."
Matilda turned the catalogue over and over with a disturbed mind. It seemed to her that to have such a little greenhouse as Norton proposed, full of beauties, would be one of the most enjoyable things that could be. Every new page of the catalogue, every new detail of Norton's plan, tugged at her heart-strings. She wanted to get those plants and flowers. A few delicate tea roses, some crimson blush roses, some pots of delicious purple heliotropes with spicy breath; two or three—or four—great double carnations; bunches of violets, sweetest of all; she wanted these! Then some azaleas, larger of course, to fill up the shelves and make a beautiful show of colour, as Norton desired. Her imagination went over and over the catalogue, always picking these out for her choice; and then imagination took them to the little room upstairs, which was going to be such a lovely little greenhouse, and saw them there and almost smelt their fragrance. It would be so pleasant to take care of them; she fancied herself watering them and dressing them, picking off the dead leaves and tying up the long wreaths of vines, and putting flowers into Mrs. Laval's stem glass for her dressing table. But what use? she had not the money to buy the plants, if she went on with her plans for Sarah's behoof; no counting nor calculating could come to any other conclusion. She thought of it by day and she thought of it by night; and the more she thought, the more her desires grew. Then too, the wish to please Norton was a very serious element in her cogitations. To disappoint him by utterly failing to do all he wished and counted upon from her, was very hard to do and very disagreeable to face. But Sarah? Matilda could not change her line of action, nor divert more than one dollar from the fund saved for her benefit. One dollar, Matilda thought, might be given for flowers; but what would one dollar be worth, with all one side of the little greenhouse to be filled.
It is not easy to tell, how much trouble all this question gave Matilda. She thought it was quite strange and notable, that just when she was trying to accomplish so right a thing as the helping of that poor family in the cellar, this temptation of flowers should come up to make it hard. In one of her windows stood three little pots, in which three hyacinths were already bursting through the brown earth and showing little stout green points of leaf buds which promised nicely for other buds by and by. They had been a delight to Matilda's heart only a week ago; now, it seemed as if that vision of heliotropes and roses and geraniums had somehow swallowed them up.
When she went next to Sunday school, however, and saw Sarah's meek, patient face, Matilda was very much astonished at herself, and not a little ashamed. She sat next Sarah in the class, and could see without seeming to see, how thin her dress was and how limp it was, as if she had not enough petticoats under it to keep her warm. There was a patch too in one place. And Sarah's shawl was a very poor wrap alongside of the well covered shoulders under Matilda's thick coat. "No gloves!" said Matilda to herself, as her eye glanced from her own very handsome and warm ones; "how can she bear it? I wonder how it makes her feel, to see mine? Another time I'll wear an older pair." But the contrast went home to Matilda's heart. Why should she have so many good things, and Sarah so few? and the words David had quoted from the Hebrew Scriptures came back to her.
With an odd feeling as if there were wrong done for which she was somehow chargeable, after the lesson was done and school dismissed she asked Sarah "how she was?" The girl's meek eye brightened a little as she answered that she was well.
"But you are hoarse," said Matilda. "You have got cold."
"O I often do, in the winter time," said Sarah. "I don't think anything of it."
And that slight shawl and thin dress! Matilda's heart gave some painful blows to her conscience.
"I didn't see you at your place the other day," she went on.
"That was Thursday," said Sarah. "No; I was too bad Thursday. I didn't go out."
So she staid at home to nurse her cold, in that cellar room with the mud floor. What sort of comfort could be had there? or what good of nursing? Matilda did not wonder that the street corner was quite as pleasant and nearly as profitable. And the thought of Sarah's gentle pale face as she said those words so went home to her heart, that she was crying half the way home; tears of sorrow and sympathy running down her face, as fast as she wiped them away.
That same evening, at tea-time, Norton asked if she had made up her list of plants for the greenhouse? Matilda said no.
"We shall want them, now, Pink. By Wednesday I shall have the staging ready; and the sooner we get it filled the better."
"O but, dear Norton," said Matilda, "I am very sorry to disappoint you; but I cannot take the money."
"Can't take what money?"
"The money to buy those plants. I would like them; but I cannot."
"But you were making your list," said Norton.
"No, I wasn't. I was only thinking what I wouldliketo have."
"And you are not going to come into the greenhouse at all?"
That was more than Matilda had counted upon; the tears started to her eyes; but she only said,—
"I cannot get the plants, Norton;" and she said it steadily.
"You are going into that ridiculous charitable concern?"
Matilda was beyond answering just then; she kept silence.
"Letmeinto your greenhouse, Norton," said Judy.
"Yes; fine work you would make there," Norton replied.
"Indeed I would. I'll fill my shelves with just the finest things we can get; camellias, if you like; and the newest geraniums, and everything."
"You wouldn't take care of them if you had them."
"Well, you would," said Judy; "and it comes to the same thing."
"Pink," said Norton, "I must have my shelves full; and I can't do it all. If you won't come into the greenhouse, I shall let Judy come."
"Well, Norton," said Matilda steadily. "If you knew what I know, and if you had seen what I have seen, you wouldn't wonder at me; and I almost think you would help me."
"You'll grow wiser," said Norton, "when you have had your fingers burned a few times."
The tone of cool indifference to her subjects of interest, of slight displeasure at her preferring them to his, went to Matilda's heart. So also it tried her greatly, to see for the rest of the evening Norton and Judy in high confabulation over the catalogues and the greenhouse. She felt shut out from it, and a little from Norton himself. It was hard to bear; and once and again she could not help the tears rising to her eyes. She got rid of them, she thought, cleverly, without any one being the wiser; but David Bartholomew had marked it all. He had not said a word, however; and Matilda went early up to bed; marvelling anew that it should be so difficult to do right. Why must this greenhouse business come up just at this moment?
She had a week to think about it and grieve over it. The boys were going to school again now, and she saw but little of them. Judy had masters and mistresses, and was herself much out of sight. Matilda was to be under Norton's tutelage, it had been agreed; and accordingly he had put certain books in her hands and pointed out certain tasks; and Matilda laid hold of them with great zeal. With so much, indeed, that difficulties, if there were any, disappeared; and Norton had little to do beyond finding out that she was, as he expressed it, "all right," and giving her new work for the next day. So went the work; very busy, and very happy too; only for Matilda's being shut out from greenhouse pleasures and Judy taken into Norton's partnership.