Matilda went to the door and knocked. She heard nothing, and was obliged to knock again. Then the door opened, and David stood before her. What to say to him Matilda had not just determined, and while she hesitated he stepped back, mutely inviting her to enter. Matilda went in and he closed the door. She was afraid to speak when she saw his face, it was so pale and disturbed. But he prevented her.
"I have found it out, Matilda," he said. "It's all true."
Matilda started and looked up at him to see what he meant.
"I know it now," he said. "Heisthe Messiah! he is my Messiah; he is my King But—my people, my people!—"
Breaking off abruptly with this cry, David sat down at a little table where he had been sitting,—for his Bible was open upon it,—and put his head down in his hands and burst into tears. And Matilda had never seen anybody weep as she saw him then; nor in her childishness had supposed that a boy could; the little deal table shook under the strength of his sobs. Matilda was bewildered and half frightened; she stepped back into the gallery, meaning to summon Mr. Richmond; but Mr. Richmond was not there; and she went back again, and stood, much distressed, waiting until this paroxysm of pain should have passed by. It lasted some time. Probably David had not shed a tear until then, and speaking to her had broken down the barrier. Matilda did not know what to do. At last she put her hand timidly among the thick dark curls which lay lower than she had ever seen them before, and spoke.
"Dear David! don't,—please don't do so!"
He heard and heeded the anxious little voice, for the sobs lessened, and presently he raised himself up and as it were shook them off. But Matilda thought he looked very sad yet. She waited silently.
"You see, Matilda," he said, "I understand it all now. Andtheydon't!"
"Who don't, David?"
"My people," he said sadly. "I see it all now. They did not know him—they did not know him! And so they lost him. You know what he said,—the kingdom is 'taken from them, and given to another nation, bringing forth the fruits thereof.' So they are scattered abroad on the face of the whole earth. And still they don't know him!"
"But you do, David?" said Matilda earnestly.
"Tilly, I wish my life was longer, to use it for him. I wish my hands were stronger, to do his service! But all I am is his, every bit of it, and all I have; from this day for ever."
The boy stood, with a kind of sad joyfulness, very quiet, with folded hands, speaking hardly as it seemed to Matilda, but perhaps to angels and the Lord himself.
"Won't you come and tell Mr. Richmond?"
"Certainly!" he said, starting from his attitude.
"When we heard nothing of you for ever so long, I grew troubled; I didn't know what had become of you; and then Mr. Richmond proposed that we should come here and look after you. You'll come to the parsonage to-night, David? you know we are all going away to-morrow morning."
"I'll be ready in two minutes."
Matilda waited while he washed his face and brushed his hair; then they went downstairs and found Mr. Richmond. He stretched out his hand to David, which the boy took with a flitting change of colour that told of some difficulty of self-command. However in a moment his words were firm.
"I have found my Messiah, sir, where you bade me look for him. He ismyMessiah, and my King, and I am his servant. I wish I could be his servant twenty times over!"
"Why?"
"One life is too little to give."
"You may serve him to the ages of the ages. Service shall not end withthislife, do you think so?"
Then David lifted up his dark eyes and smiled. Matilda had always known him a very grave boy; perhaps partly for that reason this smile seemed to her like a rift of light between clouds, so sweet and bright. It filled Matilda with so much awe that she did not open her lips all the way to the parsonage. Nor did Mr. Richmond say much.
They were in danger of being a silent party at tea, too; only I think the minister exerted himself to prevent it. Matilda had no words for anything, and indeed could hardly eat her supper; as often as she dared, she stole a look at David. For he did not look at all like himself. He was grave; to be sure that was like him; only now it was a new sort of high, sweet gravity, even gentle and humble in its seeming; and if he was silent, it was not that he was not ready and willing to speak when there was occasion. But Matilda guessed he had too much to think of to want to talk much. Norton was perhaps a little curious as to what there was between his three companions; and Miss Redwood was seldom free with her tongue in the minister's presence. Mr. Richmond, as I said, had to exert himself, or the silence of the tea-table would have been too marked.
They all went to church together. Matilda caught a look of extreme surprise on Norton's face when he saw that David was one of the party; but there was no time for explanations then. Little Matilda thought she had hardly ever been so happy in her life. In the old place, Mr. Richmond preaching, and David and Norton beside her, one of them there in heart as well as in person. The singing was sweet, and the prayers were happy.
Coming back from church, Matilda and Norton fell a little behind the others.
"What's come over David Bartholomew?" Norton whispered. "Politeness?"
"O no, Norton; not politeness. He will tell you himself."
"Davy's strong on politeness," said Norton. "I didn't know but it was that. Politeness tookme;but of course, to take Davy, it would have to be a most extraordinary and uncommon sort of politeness. I can hardly believe my eyes yet."
"You always said Mr. Richmond was a brick, Norton," said Matilda.
"Yes, but you never heard me say David Bartholomew was another, did you?"
"Well, but heis, Norton."
"Heis!Phew! that's news."
They came to the parsonage door and Matilda could not reply. Going in, Mr. Richmond said to them that he had something to talk with David about, and that they must not sit up if they were tired. So he and David turned into the study, and Norton and Matilda went on into the dining-room, where Miss Redwood was sitting with her Bible. Then David's head was put into the room after them. "Tell Norton for me, please, Matilda," he said; and went back.
"Tell me what?" said Norton.
Matilda did not know how to begin.
"Well, you've got home," remarked the housekeeper closing her book. "Was there many out?"
"Would have been more if you hadn't staid at home, Miss Redwood," Norton replied.
"When you're as old as I am, my young gentleman, you'll know that folks don't do things without reasons."
"Ah!" said Norton. "But are they always good reasons?"
"That's their own look out," said the housekeeper. "What did you go to church for this evening, for instance?"
"I've just been telling my sister," said Norton. "But what, in the name of Rabbi Solomon, and all the Rabbis, ever took David Bartholomew there?"
"Ain't he a Jew?" said the housekeeper.
"Of course he is. And he don't love Christians, I can tell you, except one here and there."
"He does now," said Matilda in a low voice.
"What?" said Norton.
"He loves Christians now, Norton. And he loves Jesus. He is a Christian himself."
"David Bartholomew a Christian!" exclaimed Norton.
Matilda nodded. Her eyes were full and her lips were trembling.
"Ithoughtthere was something to pay," said the good housekeeper, whose eyes watered for company. But Norton was transfixed with astonishment.
"Pink, what do you mean?"
"It's true, Norton," said Matilda nodding again.
"What's made him?"
"He has been studying the Bible and the New Testament this long while. Now, he says, he knows."
"And he means it!" said the housekeeper. "I can tell by the look of him."
"Means what?"
"He means what he says—whatever that is."
"But you said, you were thinking, something in particular, Miss Redwood."
"Yes; just what he was thinking," said the housekeeper. "He'll never be one o' those Christians that stand on one leg at a time; that's what I mean. Whoever wants to walk alongside of him, 'll have to step up to the mark."
Norton looked at her, in somewhat disdainful want of comprehension, and then turned to Matilda again.
"Pink, I don't believe a word of it!"
"Why, Norton, I heard him myself, all that he said."
"Mind, he may have found out that his famous old uncles of rabbis don't know anything;that'svery likely; but I don't believe David Bartholomew has given up being a Jew."
"Why he can't do that, Norton; he's born so; but he is a Christian too."
"A man can't be a Christian and a Jew too," said Norton.
"Miss Redwood, can't he?"
"I reckon it's difficult," said the good housekeeper; "and you may depend he's found that out; but he's found it's possible too. Why what 'ud become of all the Jewish nation if it warn't possible?"
"What should become of them?" Norton asked scornfully.
"Well, there's wonderful things about the Jews in the Bible," said the housekeeper rising; "if the minister was here he'd tell you. And there was an old promise to Abraham, that if I was you I wouldn't run against."
"Run against a promise to Abraham!" said Norton.
"Well, yes," said the housekeeper, setting her chair back at the wall in its place. "I wouldn't like to run against none o' the Lord's words, and this is one of 'em. 'I will bless them that bless thee, and curse him that curseth thee.'"
The housekeeper went off and left Matilda and Norton looking at each other. Norton wore a vexed face.
"This is all trumpery," he said. "It will blow away like smoke."
"No it won't, Norton," said Matilda. "I hope not."
"And how long have you and David been holding secret meetings together to talk about this?"
"I don't know, Norton. But we had better go to bed, I suppose; for Miss Redwood will call us very early to have breakfast before the omnibus comes for us."
"Nonsense to have breakfast!" said Norton. "We shall be home time enough."
"But then you and Davy will have to rush right off to school. Good night."
"Good night"—said Norton, in an uncomfortable tone. And they went up to their rooms, leaving David and Mr. Richmond still shut up in the study.
It was early, dawn just breaking, when the summons came for them to get up; the dawn of a fair spring morning. What a visit it had been! Matilda thought to herself, as she dressed and put up her things in her little hand bag. And as the first sunbeams were glinting on the top of the old tower, she ran down to breakfast. Mr. Richmond gave her a very warm greeting, in his quiet way. So did David. He looked bright and well, Matilda saw at a glance. Norton had not by any means got over his discomfiture. He seemed embarrassed as well as uneasy; watched David with furtive glances, and eat his breakfast in silence. Mr. Richmond and Matilda were the talkers.
"Have you had any more difficulties about boots?" he asked in the course of the conversation. Matilda looked at him in bewilderment.
"You wrote me some time ago, on the subject of a deep question that had to do with boots."
Matilda coloured and laughed, while Norton remarked that boots were a queer subject for deep questions to have to do with.
"Deep questions can spring out of anything—out of your bread and butter," said Mr. Richmond. "How is it, Tilly, about the matter of boots?"
"I have hardly thought about it, Mr. Richmond, this long while."
"How is that?"
"I have had so much else to think of, I believe."
"Studies?"
"No, sir; my studies have been a good deal broken off by my being sick."
"What then? Can you tell me?"
Matilda gave briefly the history of her connexion with Sarah Staples. She meant to give it briefly; but the story was too sweet in the telling; it rather grew long. Yet she did by no means put herself or her own doings in the foreground; that place was given as much as possible to Mr. Wharncliffe and David and the poor family themselves. The minister and the housekeeper were both very much interested.
"Yes," said the former, in conclusion, "I understand, and am satisfied. I see that now boots are boots; and nothing more."
Matilda laughed, for the boys looked mystified.
"Will you tell me, sir," inquired Norton, "how deep questions could spring out of my bread and butter?"
The minister could have smiled at the boy's air, which had much the effect of seeming to put a "poser" to him; but he controlled himself and answered quite gravely.
"Shall we consider them together? or apart?"
"Apart, if you please."
"Well—Bread, you know, daily bread, stands for the matters which support life, in all variety. This question arises.—Who gives this daily bread to you, and gives you power to eat it? And what use does He wish to make of you, that he should give you both?"
Norton was silent.
"You are not prepared with an answer?" said the minister.
"I never thought of the questions before, sir. The second one sounds to me very strange."
"Does it? Do you think the Lord had no purpose to serve, in putting you here and nourishing you up to strength and power?"
"That's for the bread," said Norton after a pause, but not rudely; lifting his eyes to the minister as he spoke. "You were going to consider the breadand butter."
"I think you do not seem disposed to 'consider' anything," said Mr. Richmond smiling; "but, however, I will hope the time of consideration may come. Now for deep question Number three, or Number four,—You have butter to your bread, and plenty of it; what is your duty towards others who have no butter, and others still who have no bread?"
"There's the omnibus, Mr. Richmond," said the housekeeper. And there was no more talk. Only a hurried putting on of hats and seizing of hand bags; eager, warm, hearty grasping of hands in good bye; and then the three travellers were in the omnibus and rolling along the parsonage lane and out at the gate.
What a visit it had been! Matilda was so full of content that she was still. Not a very noisy child at any time, she was now as quiet as a mouse, just with content. Three days of sweet pleasure, three days of country skies and greening grass and free sunshine; three nights and mornings of parsonage delights. And more than that; more than all she had hoped for; David going home withhisdeep questions solved and his calls of duty and privilege met. What would they think at home? and how would they find out about it? "He was one of those lost pieces of silver," thought Matilda, smiling to herself; "and Jesus has found him!"
"What's so amusing?" inquired Norton. He was rather in a disordered state of mind, and certainly seemed to see nothing amusing himself.
Matilda looked up, still smiling, though her eyes were dewy, and from him glanced at David. Their eyes met. His smile answered hers, quite recognizing its meaning. Norton whistled. There was no other passenger in the omnibus; and he whistled half way to the station.
In the cars the same content possessed Matilda. It was still early morning; she thought the river had never looked so pretty as in the crisp light of that hour; nor the opposite hills so lovely as under those wreaths of bright vapour which lay along the hillsides; nor ever was there a blue sky more smiling. She glanced at her two companions. Norton was not smiling by any means; his discomposure had not gone off, whatever it might mean; and he eyed David now and then with a jealous, doubtful expression. David was grave enough, but not as usual. Matilda looked again and again, to see how different the thoughtful bright calm of his face was from the old dark gloom that used to be there; and then her eyes turned to the sunny river and sky and hills, with a glad feeling of the harmony between things outward and inward. Before long, David had taken out a little book and was deep in the study of it; which he never interrupted till they reached Poughkeepsie. There Norton rushed out, to get something to eat, he said; though Matilda guessed it was rather to get rid of himself for a minute. Many other people left the car on the same errand; and David looked up from his book and came over to Matilda.
"Well," said he, "how are you getting along?"
"Nicely. I am so happy, David!"
"So am I," said he gravely. "All the world is new, and it seems to me I see the sun shine for the first time."
"See the sun shine?" repeated Matilda doubtfully.
"Yes," said he smiling.
"But you don't look at it, David. You are reading all the while."
"I see it, though. Now I know what the prophet Malachi meant by the sun of righteousness. Do you remember, Matilda? I guess you don't; but I know the words.
'And risen to you, ye who fear my name,Hath the sun of righteousness and healing in its wings.'
I feel that now. I never could understand it before."
"There are a great many things that we cannot understand till we feel them,—are there not, David?"
"I suppose so," he said thoughtfully.
Their talk stopped there; and presently the people who had gone out came pouring back. Norton brought a great piece of sponge-cake to Matilda.
"Thank you, Norton, but I'm not hungry, I've just had breakfast a few minutes ago."
"You hadn't time to eat."
"Yes, I had. You spent your time talking, I suppose; you and Mr. Richmond; that's the reason you are hungry."
Norton sat down and eat his sponge-cake; and spoke no more till the train got in. The carriage was in waiting; took the two boys immediately to school, and carried Matilda and the bags home.
She wondered all day how and when David's disclosure would be made, and how it would be taken at home. She had a good many questions to answer herself, even Judy seeming curious to know what they had been doing and how they had spent the time, and why they had not come home Saturday; especially what David had done with himself and why he had taken it into his head to go at all. Matilda declined to enter into any discussion of David's affairs, and left him to speak for himself. But much she wondered how he would, and whether he would, and when he would.
It happened that evening that there was no company, and the family were all gathered together in the little reception room; talking over the children's reports and discussing plans for the coming summer. Matilda's heart began to beat; for she saw that David was thoughtfully still, and that Norton, in a corner, only talked by jerks, as it were, and sat turning over and over one of his school-books, with an odd air of expectancy. Yes, certainly he knew that David was going to speak, and was waiting for it. Matilda could think of nothing else; her talk all came to an end.
"Norton hasn't much to say to-night," Mrs. Bartholomew remarked. "No more than if he were my boy."
"I haven't anything to talk about," said Norton, looking at nothing but his book.
"Matilda has lost her tongue too," said Judy.
"She never had such a one as yours," replied her grandmother; "you must remember that. It isn't such a loss in the house."
Judy seemed inclined to pout at this; but then her attention was turned to her brother, who began rather suddenly.
"May I speak, grandmamma?"
"I shall be very happy to hear," said Mrs. Lloyd smiling.
"I am not so sure of that," said David; "at least, not of you all; though I really have something to say."
All eyes turned to David. Norton looked up at him from under his brows, with a strange expression of curiosity and displeasure. Matilda only looked away. David hesitated, then went on very calmly and gently.
"You know, mother and grandmother, that I have been very strong in my love for my own people, and very strong in my sympathies with them."
"Is it in the past tense?" asked Mrs. Lloyd.
"And very fixed in my prejudices against what was not Jewish; against what in your beliefs was contrary to mine."
"We all know that," said his mother a little bitterly.
"Isthatin the past tense?" demanded Judy.
"I joined with my people in expecting the Messiah and hoping for him."
"Did you?" said his mother.
"I have changed," said David slowly. "I have been studying these things for some time past; I have studied and studied; and now I know. Our Messiahhascome; our people did not know him, and—they lost him. I know now that Jesus of Nazareth is the Messiah."
A scream of startled rage from Judy broke in upon the closing utterances of this speech. She prevented everybody else.
"You do not mean to say that, David Bartholomew!" she exclaimed, jumping out of her chair and standing before him. "You don't mean it."
"Do I ever say what I do not mean, Judy?" he answered gravely.
"Say it again. Say you have left us and gone over to the Christians."
"Judy! are you not ashamed!" cried Mrs. Bartholomew. "What do you think of your mother?"
"Nothing," said Judy. "I'm not talking of you, mamma. You are neither one thing nor the other. You are nothing.Haveyou gone over, David?"
"You know what I said," her brother answered. "I believe that Jesus of Nazareth is the Messiah."
"The Christians' Messiah," said Judy scornfully.
"Theirs and ours," said David sorrowfully. "Messiah ben David, the King of Israel."
"Take that!" said Judy, administering a slap on the cheek which was heartily delivered. "You are a mean good-for-nothing, David Bartholomew! and I wish your name was something else."
All the voices in the room cried out upon Judy except her brother's. His colour changed, back and forth, but he was silent She stood in the centre of the room like a little fury.
"Judy, Judy! Sit down!" said Mrs. Bartholomew. But it was doubtful if Judy heard.
"What do you think your uncle Solomon and Rabbi Nathan will say to you, you mean boy!" she cried. "I am going straight to tell them."
"I will tell them myself, Judy," said David.
"And what do you think they will say to you, hey? You deserve all you'll get. Ugh! What is a Jew who isn't a Jew any longer?"
"I was going to tell you what I am," said David. "Grandmamma, I had not finished what I had to say to you."
"Let him speak, Judy," said Mrs. Lloyd.
"If the rest is like the beginning, I don't want to hear it," said Judy.
"You need not hear it," said her mother. "Leave the room, then."
"I won't!" said Judy. "There is nobody here but me to make him ashamed."
"I wish something would make you ashamed," said her mother. "Judy Bartholomew, hold your tongue. Go on, David."
"Mamma, you don't like all this stuff any better than I do."
"I choose to hear it out, though," said Mrs. Bartholomew. "Sit down and be silent."
"I will—till I get something else to talk about," said Judy, sitting down as requested. And all eyes turned once more upon David. He was very quiet, outwardly: he had been quietly waiting.
"Grandmamma," he said with a slight smile, "I am as good a Jew as ever I was"—("It's a lie," put in Judy;—"unless the rest was!")—"I am as good a Jew as ever I was, andbetter. I had studied about the Messiah, and knew about him, and knew that he was promised—the hope of Israel, and the King of Israel. Now I know that he has come, and I know him; and he isn't the Messiah that I am hoping for, but"—he hesitated and smiled again,—"the Christ I am glad for; the Hope of Israel and the King, and so my King and my Hope. I have given myself to him to be his servant. I believe in him—I love him—and all that I am is his."
Possibly Judy was bewildered by this speech; perhaps she was astonished into silence; at any rate she sat still and was quiet. Norton tossed his book over and over. Matilda was in such a tumult of delight that she could hardly contain herself, but she made a great effort and kept it from observation. The ladies seemed somewhat in Judy's condition. At last Mrs. Bartholomew spoke.
"By your last words, what do you mean, David?"
"Mamma," he said, "I meant to make them quite plain. I thought it was right to tell you all. I am the servant of the Lord Jesus Christ."
"Well, so are we all," said his mother. "What do you mean to do, that you proclaim it so publicly?"
"Nothing, mamma; only to follow my Master."
"Follow him how?"
"In his own way—obeying his words."
"But people that talk in that way often go into extremes, and do ridiculous things—unlike all the world. I hope that is not what you mean, David?"
"I don't know, mamma," said the boy gravely. "I will do ridiculous things if He command me"—and again a flicker of a smile that came like a flicker of light passed over his face. "The first thing I thought I had to do was to tell you all; he says his servants must confess him; and to-morrow I will go to my uncles." The smile had faded and he was very grave then.
"And do you know what they will say to you?"
"I suppose I know," he answered slowly.
"Is this a very new thing, David Bartholomew?"
"No, mamma. Thefinishingof it is new; it has been growing and preparing for a long while."
"Like you!" said his mother discontentedly. "Think and think and say nothing,—and then come out with your mind, when nobody can change it!"
"And it's all because of her!" Judy exclaimed, starting from her silence and her seat together, and pointing to Matilda. "Shehas made the mischief. David would never have thought of these low ways, if there had not been somebody to put it into his head. That's what you get, aunt Zara, by your works."
"Hush!" said Mrs. Bartholomew sharply. "Matilda has nothing to do with it."
"Hasn't she though?" Judy retorted. "Just ask her. Or ask this boy. Mean little spy! coming into such a house as this to upset it!"
"Hold on, Judy," cried Norton; "you are going too fast."
"Keep yourself out of the mess!" retorted Judy with great sharpness; "there's enough without you. I say, she is at the bottom of it all; and I wish it was the bottom of the Red Sea with Pharaoh's chariots!"
"Judy, Judy!" said Mrs. Bartholomew, angry and half laughing—"hold your tongue and don't be a fool."
"You've only one of that name among your children, mamma," said the young lady. "Half's enough."
"What has Matilda done?" Mrs. Laval asked calmly.
"She has been doing ever since she came here," Judy answered.
"Whathasbewitched you, David, though?" his mother inquired. "There was nothing of all this when you went to the catechizing?"
"No, mamma. But the study about that time put me on thinking and asking questions; nobody could answer my questions; not even our wise men; until at last I began to ask—where I found the answer."
"Matilda?" said Mrs. Bartholomew.
"Matilda helped me a great deal."
"Didn't I say so?" exclaimed Judy.
"But it was her Bible that answered me—hers and my own."
"When did she help you?" Norton broke out from his corner where he had been tossing his book. "You and she are not such particular friends, that ever I knew."
"O but I think we are now, Norton," said Matilda.
"Yes," said David, with a smile. "And she has beenmyfriend for a good while."
"Very well," said Norton, returning to his book, which he tossed over and over with greater exactness than ever.
"I wash my hands of you, both of you," cried Judy. "You'll be a religious poke—O mamma! to think that we should have anything religious inourfamily. And Matilda always was a poke. Whatever will become of us, with two of them!"
"You have more to do with it than you think, Judy," said her brother. "The way Matilda bore your persecutions was the first thing that made me want to know about her religion."
"What persecutions?" Mrs. Bartholomew asked; but nobody seemed ready to answer her, and she went on—"Judy, you are a fool. David might change his opinions, surely, without being a poke. My son, you do not mean to be different from what you have always been,—do you?"
David hesitated, and said, "I hope so, mother."
"Different—how?" she asked quickly.
"I am the King's servant, mamma," he answered with a certain steadfastness which had much dignity about it.
"Well, what then? what does that mean?"
"Then of course I must do the King's commands, mamma."
"Didn't you always?"
David's answer was prevented by a fresh outburst of Judy's reproaches and charges, which lasted till her brother took himself out of hearing; then silence fell. Norton stopped the book exercise and looked about him. Matilda's face he had seen by glimpses; he knew it was flushed and anxious and glad at once. Mrs. Laval and her sister were grave, with different styles of gravity; one thoughtful, the other vexed. Old Mrs. Lloyd was in tears.
The atmosphere of the house was very quiet during several successive days, as far as Matilda could observe it. The boys were extremely busy at school; and at home there was no public recurrence of Monday night's discussion. In private Mrs. Laval questioned Matilda very closely as to all the particulars of their Shadywalk expedition and all that she had known for weeks past of David's state of mind. She made no comment on the answers; and Matilda heard no more about the matter, until Saturday morning came. Then when they were at breakfast, Mrs. Bartholomew said in a conciliating tone,
"David, my son, I don't see any necessity for that communication you are proposing to make to your uncles."
"I must go to see them, mamma."
"Certainly; that is all just and proper; but there is no occasion to talk to them about your change of views."
"Then they would believe me what I am not."
"Well—" said Mrs. Bartholomew; "they would a great deal rather believe so than know the truth."
"Would you have liked me to hide it from you, mamma?"
"I don't know; yes,—I think I should."
"What would have been your opinion of me by and by, when you came to find it out?"
"Just the truth," said Judy languidly. "Nothing can make you more of a sneak than you are already."
"One thing," said David firmly. "To get, or try to get, my uncles' money under false pretences. You know they would never give it to a Christian."
"Judy," said Mrs. Lloyd, "another ill-bred word like that, and I send you from the table."
"But my dear boy," Mrs. Bartholomew went on, "you said Monday night that you were as much of a Jew as ever."
"The poor fellow was afraid of falling between two stools," said Judy; "so he clutched at 'em both, without thinking."
"And you are very young; and you do not know what your opinions may be in a few years more. And in the mean while, I am very unwilling that you should offend your uncles.Theywould never get over it."
"I guess they wouldn't," said Judy. "What a time David will have with 'em!"
"Don't you see, my dear," pursued Mrs. Bartholomew, "it is unnecessary, and may be premature, and so unwise?"
"Mother," said David, evidently struggling with his feelings, "Messiah has said that he will not own those who do not own him."
"You'll get nothing out of him, mamma," said Judy. "He is one of Matilda's crazy kind. He is going to get rid of his money as fast as he can; and then he will turn chaplain of some jail, I should think; or else he will get a place as a Methodist parson and go poking into all the poor places of the earth; and then we shall see his name up in bills—'Preaching at the cross corners to-night—Rev. David Bartholomew will speak to the people from a candle box.'"
David changed colour once or twice, but he said nothing.
"Matilda Laval," said Judy sharply, "eat your breakfast! He won't wantyouto help him preach."
Matilda wondered privately that the elders were so patient of Judy's tongue and so very silent themselves. They seemed to have thoughts not ready for utterance. At any rate the breakfast party broke up with Judy having the last word, and scattered their several ways; and Matilda heard no more on David's subject for some time. How the Saturday's work issued she did not know; nothing was said about it in her hearing; and David looked as happy and as calm as he had done before Saturday. She watched him, and she was sure of that.
One afternoon, it was a Sunday, and the ladies of the family were shut up in their rooms, resting or dressing, Matilda and David were alone in the little reception room. It was the hour before dinner; Matilda had come in from Sunday school and was sitting there with a new book, when David joined her. He sat down beside her, Matilda knew immediately, for a talk; and she shut up her book.
"Matilda, I have been reading about the men with the talents; the five talents, and the ten talents, you know?"
"Yes, I know."
"I am afraid I don't know all my talents."
"What do you mean, David?"
"The talents are whatever is given to us to use for God—and that is, whatever is given to us; for we may use it all for him."
"Yes, David."
"Well—that means a great deal, Tilly."
"Yes, I know it does."
"And one might easily have talents that one didn't think of; lying by so, and not used at all."
"I dare say they often do," Matilda said thoughtfully.
"I want you to help me, if you can."
"Ihelpyou?" said Matilda very humbly.
"You have been longer in the way than I. You ought to know more about it."
"I am afraid I don't, though, David. But I guess Jesus will teach us, if we ask him."
"I am sure of that; but I think he means that we should help one another. What can I do, that I am not doing?"
Matilda thought a little, and then went upstairs and fetched the card of covenant and work of the old Band at Shadywalk. She put it in David's hands, and he studied it with great interest.
"There is help in this," he said. "There are things here I never thought of. 'Carrying the message'—of course I needn't wait till I have finished my studies and am grown up, to do that; it is easy to begin now."
"Are you going to dothat, when you are grown up?" said Matilda a little timidly.
"As a profession, you mean. I don't know, Tilly; if the Lord pleases. I am all his anyway; I don't care how he uses me. What I want to know is my duty now. Then, Tilly, I have plenty of money."
"That's a very good thing," said Matilda smiling.
"What shall I do with it? Do your poor people want anything?"
"Sarah Staples? O no! they are getting on nicely. Sarah has learned how to sew on a machine, or partly learned; and she gets work to do now; and Mrs. Staples is stronger, and is able to take in washing. O no; they are getting along very well."
"There must be others," said David thoughtfully.
"Yes, plenty I suppose; only we don't know them, David! perhaps Sarah knows or her mother."
"What if we were to go and ask them?"
Matilda decided that it was a capital plan; and they arranged to go the next Saturday afternoon, when David would be at leisure. And the week seemed long till the Saturday came.
"Pink," said Norton at their dinner, "I will take you into the Park this afternoon."
"O thank you, Norton! But—I can't go. I have an engagement to go to see Sarah Staples."
"Sarah Staples! Sarah Staples can wait, and I can't. I have only one Saturday afternoon a week. It'll be splendid this afternoon, Pink. The Park is all green and flowery, and it's sure to be full. I'm going just at the fullest time."
"I should like to go with you; but I have business, and I can't put it off."
"I'll wait, Tilly, if you wish," David said.
"I don't wish it at all, David. I would rather not wait."
"O it'syourbusiness too, is it!" said Norton. "And Pink would rather not wait. Very good."
"It is important business, really, Norton," Matilda pleaded; "it is not for myself."
"That's just what proves it of no importance," said Norton. "What is it?"
"David and I want to see Mrs. Staples to find out something we want to know."
"Might as well ask the Sphinx," said Norton discontentedly.
"I would just as lief tell you what, Norton; only it is something you don't care about, and it would give you no pleasure."
"May as well let 'em go, Norton," remarked Judy, eating strawberries at a tremendous rate; it was not strawberry time by any means, but these came from the South. "May as well let 'em go; there's a pair of 'em; and they'll run, I guess, till they run their heads against something or other and pull up so; or till they get swamped.Ihope they'll get swamped."
"What do you mean?" said Norton, gruffly enough.
Judy nodded her head at him in a very lively way over her strawberries.
"They are latter-day saints, don't you know? They are going to feed everybody on custards—not us, you know; we've got strawberries; but the people that haven't. Matilda's going to make them, and Davy's going to carry them round; and they're going out to buy eggs this afternoon. They expect you and me to give 'em the sugar they want."
"Not so sanguine as that, Judy," said her brother good-humouredly.
Norton looked very much discomposed; but David and Matilda had no time to spend in further talking.
They found Mrs. Staples at home, and Sarah too, as it was Saturday afternoon. The little room looked cosy and comfortable; for it was very tidy and very clean, and the mother and daughter were peacefully at work. The pleasure manifested at sight of David and Matilda was very lively. Sarah set chairs, and her mother looked to the fire in the stove.
"How does the oven work, Mrs. Staples?" Matilda asked.
"Couldn't be no better, and couldn't do no better. I declare! it's beautiful. Why after I got my hand in, I baked a pan o' biscuits the other day; and they riz up and browned, you never see! and the boys was too happy for anything. I wisht you'd seen 'em, just. They thought nothin' ever was so good, afore or since. Yes 'm, it's a first-rate oven; bakes apples too, in the most likely manner."
"How is the neighbourhood, Mrs. Staples?" David asked.
"Well, sir, there's nothin' agin' the neighbourhood. They be's a little noisy, by times; you can't expect they wouldn't; now the sun's warm in the streets and the children gets out o' their holes and corners. I sometimes think, what a mercy it is the sun shines! and specially to them as hain't no fire or next to none. I often think the Lord's more merciful than what men is."
"Do you think it is men's fault then, other men's, that such poor people haven't fire to keep them warm?"
"Well whose should it be, sir, if it wouldn't?"
"Might it not be the people's own fault?"
"Sartain!" cried Mrs. Staples, "when the money goes for drink. But why does it go for drink? I tell you, sir, folks loses heart when they knows there ain't enough to make a fire and buy somethin' to cook on the fire; and they goes off for what'll be meat and fire and forgetfulness too, for a time. And that's because of the great rents, that people that has no mercy lays on; and the mean little prices for work that is all one can get often, and be thankful for that. It's just runnin' a race with your strength givin' out every foot o' the way. And it's allays the rich folks does it," added Mrs. Staples, not very coherently.
"Rich people that give the low wages and put on the high rents, do you mean?"
"That's what I just do mean; and I ought to know. If a body once gets down, there's no chance to get up again, and then the drink comes easy."
"Do you know of anybody in distress near here, Mrs. Staples?" Matilda asked.
"Half of 'em is, I guess," was the answer.
"But is there anybody you know?"
"Mrs. Binn's little boy is sick," remarked Sarah, as her mother was pondering.
"What's the matter with him?"
"It's a kind o' waste, they say."
"Not a fever, or anything of that kind?" inquired David.
"O no, sir; he's been wasting, now, these three or four months."
"And they are not comfortable, Sarah?" Matilda asked.
"There's few is, livin' where those lives," said Mrs. Staples; "and of course, sickness makes things wuss. No, they're fur from comfortable, I should say."
"They haven't anything to give him," said Sarah low to Matilda.
"Any medicine, you mean?"
"No, Miss Matilda; nothing to eat, that he can eat."
"O David!" exclaimed Matilda, "let us go there. Where is it?"
David inquired again carefully about the sickness, to be sure that he might take Matilda there; and then they went. Sarah volunteered to guide them. But how shall I tell what they found. It was not far off, a few blocks only; in one of a tall row of tenement houses, grim and dismal, confronted by a like row on the other side of the street. Every one like every other. But inside, Matilda only remembered how unlike it was to all she had ever seen in her life before. Even Lilac lane was pleasantness and comfort comparatively. The house was sound indeed; there was no tumble-down condition of staircase or walls; the steps were safe, as they mounted flight after flight. But the entries were narrow and dirty; the stairways hadneverseen water; the walls were begrimed with the countless touches of countless dirty hands and with the sweeping by of foul draperies. Instinctively Matilda drew her own close round her. And as they went up and up, further from the street door, the air grew more close and unbearable; heavy with vapours and odours that had no chance at any time to feel the purification of a draught of free air. Poor cookery, soapsuds, unclean humanity and dirty still life, mingled their various smell in one heavy undistinguishable oppression.
"Oh, why do people build houses so high!" said little Matilda, as she toiled with her tired feet up the fourth staircase.
"For more rents, Miss Matilda," said Sarah who preceded them.
"For money!" said Matilda. "How tired the people must be that live here."
"They don't go down often," Sarah remarked.
At the very top of the house they were at last. There, in the end of the narrow entry-way, on the floor, was—what? A tumbled heap of dirty clothes, Matilda thought at first, and was about to pass it to go to the door which she supposed Sarah was making for; when Sarah stopped and drew aside a piece of netting that was stretched there. And then they saw, on the rags which served for his bed covers, the child they had come to see. A little, withered, shrunken piece of humanity, so nearly the colour of the rags he lay upon that his dark shock of matted curly hair made a startling spot in the picture.
"What's the matter, Sarah?" said Matilda in a distressed whisper.
"This is Mrs. Binn's boy, Miss Matilda, that you came to see."
"That?Why does he—why do they put him there?"
"Mrs. Binn's room is so small and so hot. It's there, Miss Matilda; you'll see it. When she's doing her washing and ironing, the place is so full of steam and so hot; and there ain't no room for the bed neither; and so she put Josh here."
Sarah led the way to Mrs. Binn's room, and Matilda followed her in a bewildered state of mind. She saw as soon as the door was opened the truth of Sarah's statements. The attic room was so small that Mrs. Binn's operations must have been carried on with the greatest difficulty; impossible Matilda would have thought them, but there were the facts. One dormer window in the roof was effectually shut up and hindered from its office of admitting air, by the pipe of the stove which passed out through the sash. As it was the end of the week, no washing encumbered the six feet clear of space; but the stove was fired up and Mrs. Binn was ironing and some clothes were hung up to air. It was neither desirable nor very practicable to go in; only Matilda edged a little way within the door, and David and Sarah stood at the opening.
"What's all to do?" said Mrs. Binn at this unlooked-for interruption, stopping iron in hand and peering at them between shirts and overalls hanging on the cords stretched across the room. She was a red-faced woman; no wonder! a small, incapable-looking, worn-out-seeming woman besides.
"This lady has come to see Josh, Mrs. Binn."
"What does she want of him?"
"Nothing," said Matilda gently; "Sarah told us how he had been sick a long while; and we came to see how he was and what he wanted."
"He won't want anything soon, but a coffin and a grave," said his mother. Matilda wondered how she could speak so; she did not know yet how long misery makes people seem hard. "How he'll get them, I don't know," Mrs. Binn went on; "but I s'pose—"
Her voice choked; she stopped there.
"Have you no place to put him but where he is lying?" Matilda asked, by way of leading on to something else.
"No, miss; no place," said the woman, feeling of her iron and taking up another one from the stove. "He'd perish in here, if he wouldn't be under my feet. An' I must stand, to live."
"Where do you dry the clothes you wash?"
"Here. I haven't an inch besides."
"I don't see how you can."
"Rich folks don't see a sight o' things," said poor Mrs. Binn; "don't like to, I guess."
"Is there not another room in the house that you could have for the sick boy, or that you could do your washing in and give him this?"
"Room in this house?" repeated the woman. "I'll tell you. There's nigh upon three hundred people living in it; do you think there'd be a room to spare?"
"Three hundred people inthishouse?" repeated Matilda.
"Nigh upon that. O it's close livin', and all sorts, and all ways o' livin', too. I like my room, cause it's so high and atop o' everything; but I hear thunder below me sometimes. I wouldn't care, only for the child," she said in a tone a little subdued.
"David, what can we do?" said Matilda, in a half despairing whisper. David edged himself a little forward and put his question.
"What does the doctor say about him?"
"Doctor!" echoed Mrs. Binn. "Did you say doctor? There's no doctor has seen him. Is it likely one would walk up to this chimbley top to see a poor boy like that? No, no; doctors has to be paid, and I can't do that."
"What do you give him to eat? what does he like?"
"What does he like!" the woman repeated. "He don't like nothin' he has, and he don't eat nothin'. 'Tain't 'what we like,' young sir, that lives in these places. Some days he can't swaller dry bread, and he don't care for mush; he'll take a sup o' milk now and then, when I can get it; but it's poor thin stuff; somethin' you call milk, and that's all."
"Good bye," said David. "I'll bring him something he will like, perhaps. I hope we haven't hindered you."
"I don't have so many visits I need quarrel with this one," said the woman, coming to her door to shew them so much civility; "Sarah wouldn't bring anybody to make a spectacle of me."
They cast looks on the poor little brown heap in the corner of the entry, and groped their way down stairs again. But when they got out into the street and drew breaths of fresh air, David and Matilda stood still and looked at each other.
"I never knew what good air meant before," said the latter.
"And even this is notgood," replied David.
"How does he live, that poor little creature, with not one breath of it?"
"He doesn't live; he is dying slowly," said David.
"Oh David, what can we do?"
"We'll think, Tilly. I'll carry him some grapes presently. I fancy he wants nothing but food and air. We will contrive something."
"I wonder if there are any other sick children in that house, Sarah?" Matilda asked.
"I can't say, Miss Matilda; I don't know nobody there but Mrs. Binn; and we used to know her before she moved there. Do you want to know of anybody else in trouble?"
"Do you think of somebody else?"
"Not a child," said Sarah; "she's an old woman, or kind of old."
"Well; who is she?"
"She's Mrs. Kitteredge; her husband's a brick mason. Mother used to know her long ago, and she was a smart woman; but she's had a deal o' pulling down."
"What does she want now, Sarah?"
"It's too bad to tell you, Miss Matilda; you've done so much for us already."
"Never mind," said David; "go on; let us hear."
"Well"—Sarah hesitated.
"Is she sick too?"
"No, she ain't sick; she has been."
"What then?"
"I don't feel as if I had no right to tell you, sir; you and Miss Matilda. I spoke before I thought enough about it. She ain't noways sick; but she has had some sort o' sickness that has made her fingers all crumple up, like; they have bent inso, and she can't straighten 'em out, not a bit; and if you take hold of 'em you can only pull 'em open a little bit. And it hurts her so to do her work, poor thing!"
"Do what work?"
"All her work, Miss Matilda—same as if her hands was good. She washes and irons her clothes and his, and cooks for him, and makes her room clean; but it takes her all day 'most; and sometimes, she says, she gets out o' heart and feels like sittin' down and givin' up; but she never does, leastways when I see her. I go in and make her bed when I can; that's what she hardly can do for herself."
"I should think not!" said Matilda.
"She can't lift her hands to her head to put up her hair; and she suffers a deal."
"Is she so very poor too, Sarah?"
"No, Miss Matilda, it ain't that. He gets good wages and brings 'em home; but he's a pertiklar man and he expects she'll have everything just as smart as if she had her fingers."
"Then what can we do for her, Sarah?"
"I don't know, ma'am;—I was thinkin', if she could have one o' them rollers that wrings clothes—it tries her awful to wring 'em with her hands."
"A clothes-wringer! O yes," cried Matilda.
"What is that?" said David.
"I will shew you. Thank you, Sarah; it was quite right to tell us. We'll see what we can do."
But after they had parted from Sarah the little girl walked quite silently and soberly homeward. David stopped at a grocer's to get some white grapes, and turned back to carry them to the sick child; and Matilda went the rest of her way alone.