David was busy with his books all the evening, and Matilda, however much she wished for it, could get no talk with him. The opportunity did not come before Sunday evening, when they were all at tea in the little reception room. Then David took his cup and his piece of cake and came to Matilda's side and sat down.
"Dr. Berger has been to see that little boy," he said.
"Has he! And what does he say?"
"Says nothing ails him but want."
"Want?" Matilda repeated.
"Want, of everything. Specially, want of food—food good for anything; and of air."
"Want of air!" cried Matilda. "I don't wonder at it. I felt as if I should be unable to breathe if we staid there much longer. And I was strong and well. Just think, to anybody sick!—"
"He says, if he could be taken into the country he would begin to get well immediately; and he asked Mrs. Binn if she had friends anywhere out of the city."
"What did she say?"
"Said her father and mother and her aunt were all dead long ago; and that he hadn't a friend in the city or out of it. And she gave up work then for a minute or two, and sat down with her apron over her head; the only time I have seen her stop work at all. I think it was her apron, but I don't know; she hid her face in something. But she didn't cry, Matilda; not a drop."
"What can we do, David?"
"I took him some grapes, you know."
"Yes. Could he eat them?"
"Had no sort of difficulty about that."
"What can we do, David?" Matilda repeated anxiously.
"I have thought of this. We might pay the woman for a week or two as much as she gets by her washing and let her take him into her room and put down her fire and make him comfortable. She cannot open her window; but we can send them a decent bed and some clean coverings and some good things to feed the fellow with. I spoke to Mrs. Binn about giving up her washing; she said she couldn't afford to lose her customers. She might manage it for a week or so, though."
"And then? A week or two would not cure him, David?"
"I doubt if any time would, in that air. Perhaps we can get him out into the country by the end of the week or two."
"Oh, David!"—Matilda exclaimed after a few minutes of perplexed thinking. What more she would have said was cut short. They had been speaking very low, but those last two words had come out with a little energy, and Judy caught them up.
"O David, what? You have been plotting mischief long enough, you two; what are you up to? Grandmamma, make them tell. Matilda is making a fool of David. I wish you'd stop it."
David looked up and over towards Mrs. Lloyd with a frank smile.
"He don't look much like it," said the old lady composedly. "What are you afraid of, Judy?"
"Grandmamma, the whole house is getting on end," said the young lady, who was not always choice in the use of her words. "David and Matilda are busy contriving how to make a big hole in the bottom of their two purses that will let out the money easy; and Norton's hair is bristling already with fear."
"Fear of what, you goose?" said Norton in towering displeasure. "What's their money to me?"
"I thought you wanted it," said Judy coolly.
"Come here, Norton," said David; "come over here and let her alone. Whatareyou afraid of, old fellow? Come! smooth out your wrinkles and let us know."
"I don't know anything about it," said Norton distantly. "You and Matilda went on an errand yesterday that lets anybody guess what you are up to to-day."
"Guess," said David. "Come, sit down here and guess."
"You are doing what Judy says."
"Holes in purses?" said David. "Go on; what do you think we are making the holes with?"
"Ridiculous stories about poor folks."
"I'll let you judge how ridiculous they are," said David; and he told about the sick boy and Mrs. Binn's six foot apartment. Norton's face would not unbend.
"Is that the only sick child in New York?" he asked.
"I am afraid not."
"Then what are you going to do about the others?"
"Help as many of them as ever I can," David answered gravely.
"Go on, and your money will go too. That's what I said," Norton responded. "Matilda will be only too glad to help you and throw in all her pennies."
"How would you like to be sick, old fellow, with no lemons at hand, and no grapes?"
"And no wine, Norton, and no sago, and no clean sheets? I know who likes to have his bed changed often. And no cups of tea, and soda biscuit, and blancmange, and jelly, and nice slices of toast."
"Whatdothey have?" Norton asked with some curiosity.
"Some coarse mush; now and then a piece of dry bread; and water. Not ice water, Norton; no ice gets up there."
"Bread and water," said Norton, summing up.
"And to lie in a corner of the entry, Norton, under the roof, because there is no room for you in the only room they have; and no open window ever; and oh, such want of it!"
"Look here!" exclaimed Norton, seizing upon a diversion, "how came you, Davy, to take Pink to such a place? I just want to know."
"Not a place for a Pink, I acknowledge," said David. "I didn't know myself, Norton, till I got there, what sort of a place it was; or she would not have gone."
"Upon my word!" said Norton. "This is what your goodness is up to. Mamma—"
"Hush," said David good-humouredly; "she is not going there again, I tell you. Come here and sit down, and tell us what you think ought to be done about such a case."
"The city ought to manage it," said Norton grumly, sitting down however.
"How shall we get the city to manage it?"
"I don't know. Davy Bartholomew! you'll never make me understand that it is our business to look up all the people that want something or other and give them all they want until our own hands are empty."
"You are dealing in generals," said David smiling. "Come back to the particular case. What ought we to do about this?"
"How came you to know of it?"
"We were told."
"Well—there must be poor people in the world," said Norton; "there always were and there always will be."
"I suppose so. And the question is, what ought we to do for them?"
"You can't do much," said Norton. "You can make yourself poor, easy enough. Then you'll expect Judy and me to take care ofyou."
"Are you afraid of that, Norton?" said Matilda laughingly.
"No, Pink, I am not," said Norton; "but you and Davy are just in the way to get into trouble. There's no bottom to New York mud."
"Norton," said David, "will you grant that we ought to do in this matter as the word of God says?"
"It don't say we are to make fools of ourselves," Norton responded.
"Yes it does," said Matilda quickly. Both her hearers looked at her.
"I don't believe it," said Norton.
"Where?" asked David.
"I can't tell,—but I know it's there. If I had that little reference Bible, Davy;—it's up in your room—"
"Yes, I can get it," said David; "but wouldn't a Concordance be better for you? I'll fetch one."
"What are you talking about, children?" said Mrs. Bartholomew, as David went out of the room.
"We have got into a knot, aunt Judith," said Norton. "Don'tyouget in, or we shall never get out."
"Doget in, mamma," urged Judy, "or David will be tied up. Matilda holding one end of the string, and Norton the other, between them they'll fix him."
"David is able to cut his own knots, or other people's," said Mrs. Bartholomew coolly. "What is all this about, David?"
David had come back in a minute with the Concordance, which he handed to Matilda. "It's a question of Scripture, mamma," he answered. Mrs. Bartholomew said "Oh!"—and turned away. But Mrs. Lloyd watched the group. Matilda was earnestly searching in the pages of the Concordance; David sat waiting, with a little curiosity; Norton with impatient defiance. Matilda was busy for some minutes with one page and another; then, "Here it is!" she said; and looked up. She saw that Mrs. Lloyd's attention was fixed, and that Mrs. Laval also was listening. She glanced at Norton, then met David's eyes; and then bent her head over her book and read.
"'Let no man deceive himself. If any man among you seemeth to be wise in this world, let him become a fool, that he may be wise. For the wisdom of this world is foolishness with God.' And then again in the next chapter—'We are fools for Christ's sake.'"
How would her various hearers take the words? She would not look up to see.
"I am content," said David.
"With what, Davy my dear?" asked his aunt.
"Content to be a fool for Christ's sake, aunt Zara."
"Is there any necessity?" she asked gently.
"Seems so," said David smiling. "At least, it seems that one must be judged so, aunt Zara."
"Can't it be avoided by judicious action, Davy?"
"Come and see, aunt Zara. Draw up here and join our consultation," said the boy, with a certain sweet gracefulness which won her to do just what he asked. She took a chair nearer the group.
"The question is, aunt Zara, what we ought to do for certain poor creatures that we know of."
"Not forthem," burst in Norton, interrupting, "but for all the rest. There is no end to the poor creatures!Isay, begin as you are to go on."
"We must take things as we find them," said David. "There is no end to the poor creatures; so the question is a big one."
"Whatisthe question?" said Mrs. Laval.
In answer to which, David told the story of Mrs. Binn and Josh.
"There are hundreds of such people!" said Norton.
"Aunt Zara," said David, "I wanted Norton to agree to submit the question to the Bible. Isn't that fair?"
"Ye-s," said Mrs. Laval cautiously; "I suppose it is. But, my dear Davy, we shouldn't do anything extravagant; the Bible does not require that."
"Shall we see what it does require?"
"Yes; go on," said Mrs. Lloyd. "Let us hear what you children can find about it."
"Among my people it was the law,"—David began, but his utterance of the words "my people" was no longer lofty; rather tender and subdued;—"it was the law, 'When thou dost complete to tithe all the tithe of thine increase in the third year, the year of the tithe, then thou hast given it to the Levite, to the sojourner, to the fatherless, and to the widow, and they have eaten within thy gates and been satisfied;' and in the feast of booths, the feast of ingathering, the sojourner, the fatherless and the widow were to share in the rejoicing."
"The tithe is the tenth," remarked Mrs. Laval.
"We always give to all the charitable societies," said Mrs. Bartholomew; "always."
"Read, Matilda," said David. "I see you are ready." And Matilda read.
"'Therefore all things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them; for this is the law and the prophets.'"
"But, my dear boy!" exclaimed Mrs. Bartholomew.
"What, mamma?"
"You don't mean, you cannot mean, that you want to act that out to the letter?"
"What does it mean, mamma?"
"I always thought it meant that we should be considerate of other people's feelings," said Mrs. Laval; "kind and thoughtful."
"But the words are very plain," said David.
"And you think really that we ought to give to everybody else the things we want for ourselves?"
"Not that exactly, aunt Zara; only to give them what we would like to have given if we were in their place; I mean, what we wouldhave a rightto like to have given, if we were in their place."
"According to that, you would carry to that sick child everything that Norton and Matilda had when they were sick."
"Such as?"—inquired David.
"Fruit, and oysters, and flowers, and tea at three dollars a pound."
"Tea at three dollars a pound would be lost upon him, for he would not know the difference between that—and I suppose—lower priced tea. Whatcanyou get good tea for, aunt Zara?"
"Tea good for him,—for a dollar, and twelve shillings."
"Tea good for anybody," said Mrs. Lloyd. "I have had it good enough for anybody, for a dollar fifty?"
"The other things," said David, returning to his aunt, "why shouldn't he have them, as well as we, aunt Zara?"
Mrs. Laval was dumb, I suppose with astonishment as well as the inconvenience of finding an answer; and before anybody else began again, Matilda's soft voice gave forth another verse.
"'Blessed is he that considereh the poor; the Lord will deliver him in time of trouble.'"
"Of course," said Mrs. Laval; "wedoconsider the poor."
"Let the child go on," said Mrs. Lloyd. "I want to hear all she has to bring."
Matilda went on with Job's declaration.
"'If I have withheld the poor from their desire, or have caused the eyes of the widow to fail; or have eaten my morsel myself alone, and the fatherless hath not eaten thereof; (for from my youth he was brought up with me, as with a father, and I have guided her from my mother's womb;) if I have seen any perish for lack of clothing, or any poor without covering; if his loins have not blessed me, and if he were not warmed with the fleece of my sheep; if I have lifted up my hand against the fatherless, when I saw my help in the gate: then let mine arm fall from my shoulder blade, and mine arm be broken from the bone.'"
"Who said that?" demanded Mrs. Bartholomew.
"Job."
"I don't see what he has to do with us," said the lady, moving her rosetted slipper impatiently, and so making a soft little rustle with the lilac ruffles of her silk skirt.
"The old fellow had no business to swear, anyhow," said Norton.
"Swear!" said Judy.
"Something very like it," said Norton.
"Go on, Matilda," said Mrs. Lloyd,—"if you have anything more."
"Yes, grandmamma."
"What is David trying to prove?" asked Mrs. Laval.
"We are only trying to find out what the word of the Lord would make us do, aunt Zara."
The two younger ladies looked annoyed; however silence was restored, and Matilda began again.
"'He that despiseth his neighbour sinneth; but he that hath mercy on the poor, happy is he.'"
"Do we despise anybody?" Mrs. Bartholomew asked. No one answered at first.
"Ido," said Judy. "Just two or three."
"'He that hath pity upon the poor lendeth unto the Lord; and that which he hath given will he pay him again.'"
"You see," said David, "the Lord reckons it his own affair. These are Messiah's poor people; we are his stewards."
"How much are you going to give them, on that principle?" his mother inquired.
"I don't know, mamma."
"But speak!" she said impatiently. "Youdoknow what you mean to do; you have it all mapped out already in your head, I know."
"I don't know how much I shall give, mamma. Whatever I think they want more than I do."
"You might wear homespun, and eat bread and water, at that rate."
"Mamma," said Judy, "we are very wicked to wear silk dresses. And just think of your lace shawl, mamma! And grandma's."
Matilda waited, and when nobody carried on the talk and the silence waited for her, she went on with Isaiah's beautiful words.
"'Is not this the fast that I have chosen? to loose the bands of wickedness, to undo the heavy burdens, and to let the oppressed go free, and that ye break every yoke? Is it not to deal thy bread to the hungry, and that thou bring the poor that are cast out to thy house? when thou seest the naked, that thou cover him; and that thou hide not thyself from thine own flesh?'"
"What is 'loosing the bands of wickedness'?" asked Mrs. Lloyd.
"Now-a-days, grandmamma, I should say it was breaking up the killing rents and starving wages, and the whole system of tenement houses; for one thing."
"Why what do you know about it, Davy, boy?"
"Not very much, ma'am; but I have seen a little, and the doctor I went for told me a good deal."
"Davy's growing elegant in his speech, as well as modest," said his sister. "He has 'heard a good deal,' but he 'don't know much.' O Davy, why don't you make better use of your opportunities!"
"Very unprofitable opportunities, I must say," remarked his mother. "I have no idea that such a boy has any business with them, or anything to do in such places. And what does he know about wages and systems of business?"
"Go on, Matilda," said Mrs. Lloyd. "I am afraid, my dear, David is right. I have heard the same things from others. Go on, Matilda."
"'Then said he also to him that bade him, When thou makest a dinner or a supper, call not thy friends, nor thy brethren, neither thy kinsmen, nor thy rich neighbours; lest they also bid thee again, and a recompense be made thee. But when thou makest a feast, call the poor, the maimed, the lame, the blind: and thou shalt be blessed; for they cannot recompense thee: for thou shalt be recompensed at the resurrection of the just.'"
Matilda read these words, with a quick remembrance of the time when she had read them in the company of her two little schoolmates, and the discussion that had ensued thereupon; curious what their reception would be now. It was stormy.
"The idea!" said Mrs. Bartholomew.
"That would make a finish of society at once," said Mrs. Laval.
"But what do the words mean?" asked Mrs. Lloyd. "There they are. They must mean something."
"Something!" echoed Mrs. Bartholomew. "Just imagine, that we are to gather in a company of cripples round our dinner table! Send out and ask all the forlorn creatures we can find, and feed them on game and sweetbreads. It looks like it!"
"And give up entertaining our friends," added Mrs. Laval.
"What friends do we entertain, aunt Zara?" David asked. "You do not care much for most of them."
"You are a ridiculous, absurd, fanatical boy!" said Judy. "What nonsense you do talk!"
"Nonsense that would make an end of all civilization," said Mrs. Laval; not quite logically.
"But do you care much for these people you invite?" David persisted.
"Not singly," Mrs. Laval admitted; "but taken together, I care a great deal. At least they are people of our own rank and standing in society, and we can understand what they talk about."
"But what do the words mean?" Mrs. Lloyd asked.
"Why mother," said Mrs. Bartholomew, "you have read them a thousand times. They mean what they always did."
"I don't think I ever raised the question till this minute," said Mrs. Lloyd. "In fact, I don't think I knew the words were there. And I should like to know now what they mean."
"Grandmother," said David, "isn't it safe to conclude they mean just what they say?"
"Then we should never ask anybody to dinner!" cried his mother.
"And we should never have a party again," said Judy.
"Society would be at an end," said Mrs. Laval.
"And we should fill our house with horrid wretches," cried Judy, "and have to take up our carpets and clean house every time."
David was silent while these various charges were eagerly poured out. Norton looked at him a little scornfully; Matilda anxiously; but he was only sorrowfully quiet, till his grandmother turned to him with her question.
"Whatwouldyou do, Davy?"
"He'd do anything absurd and ridiculous," said Judy; "the more the better. He is just fit for it. What's the use of asking him, grandma?"
"I would like to hear, my dear, if you will let him speak. I would like to know what the words say to you, Davy."
"Grandmother," said David thoughtfully, "it seems to me the words forbid that we should ask people just that they may ask us;—or do anything of that sort."
"But society would fall to pieces," said Mrs. Bartholomew.
"I never heard of the strictest Christians refusing to do polite things in that way, when they can," added Mrs. Laval.
"But what do the words say?" David answered. "And then, I think, the Lord meant to forbid our making expensive entertainments for anybody,exceptthose who can't give us the same again."
"Then we may ask our friends," said Judy, "only we mustn't give them anything to eat. And of course no wine to drink. I wonder if we might light the gas? It is expensive, when you burn enough of it. Such meanness!" exclaimed Judy with concentrated scorn.
"You would put an end to society," repeated Mrs. Laval.
"What would be the use of having a fine house and large rooms and beautiful things," asked her sister, "if nobody was to see them?"
David cast his eyes round the room where they were, and smiled a little.
"Whatdoyou mean?" asked his mother sharply.
"I was thinking, mamma," said David; "I couldn't help thinking."
"Go on, David," Mrs. Lloyd said.
"Well, grandmamma, if one took the money to give poor people a good time, it would not be necessary at all, as Judy supposed, to have them brought into our dining room."
"But don't you think people are meant to be sociable, and see their friends? We are not intended to live alone."
"Surely not," said Mrs. Laval.
"Grandmamma, and aunt Zara," said the boy, "I believe I would like to look after Messiah's friends first; and then do what I pleased with my own."
"Do you mean that all those low, miserable people are His friends?" cried Mrs. Bartholomew.
"He is their friend, mamma; it comes to the same thing; and some of them are his very own; and he has given us the charge to take care of them. And his words seem to me very plain."
"He's a ruined boy, mamma!" said Judy.
"Ihopehe'll grow out of it," said his mother.
"May I read one place more, grandmamma?" Matilda asked.
"I hope it's the last," said Mrs. Bartholomew.
"I like to hear them," said Mrs. Lloyd.
"Read, Matilda."
Matilda read, her voice trembling a little.
"'Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand, Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; for I was a hungered, and ye gave me meat; I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink; I was a stranger, and ye took me in; naked, and ye clothed me; I was sick, and ye visited me; I was in prison, and ye came unto me. Then shall the righteous answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee a hungered, and fed thee? or thirsty, and gave thee drink? When saw we thee a stranger, and took thee in? or naked, and clothed thee? or when saw we thee sick, or in prison, and came unto thee?
"'And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.'"
There was no remark made by anybody following upon this reading. The circle broke up. With dissatisfied faces the ladies and Judy and Norton withdrew their several ways. David presently went off too, but Matilda had noticed thathisface was as serene as summer moonlight. She was gathering up her books to go too like all the rest, when to her great surprise Mrs. Lloyd came beside her and drawing her into her arms bestowed an earnest kiss upon her uplifted wondering face. Then they both went silently upstairs.
The peace of the house was gone. Not, indeed, that quarrelling took its place; there was no quarrelling; only an uncomfortable feeling in the air, and looks that were no longer pleased and pleasant. Mrs. Bartholomew wore a discontented face, and behaved so. Judy was snappish; not a new thing exactly, but it was invariable now. David was very quiet and very sober; however in his case the quietwasquiet, and the soberness was very serene; all the old gloom seemed to be gone. Norton, Matilda thought, was cross; and she failed to see the occasion. Even Mrs. Laval looked uncomfortable sometimes, and once remarked to Matilda that it would be pleasant to get back to Shadywalk. And Matilda loved Shadywalk and Briery Bank, but she was not ready with a response. She tried to be very busy with her studies, and hoped that things would work clear by and by. Once she had the curiosity to ask Norton how David was getting on at school?
"Well enough," Norton answered shortly.
"Do the boys like him better?"
"Better than what?"
"Why, better than they used to?"
"I don't know.Idon't."
"Why not, Norton? O why don't you?"
"No accounting for tastes," Norton replied, rather grumly.
"Does David study well?"
"Yes. He always did."
Norton might have said that David was walking into everything and through everything; but he did not say anything of the kind. And sundry other questions that trembled on the tip of Matilda's tongue, only trembled there, and never got any further.
Meanwhile Mrs. Binn was not forgotten.
"It's worth anything," David said to Matilda one day that week, "to see the fellow eat strawberries."
"Strawberries! O did you take strawberries to him!" cried Matilda. "And he liked them?"
"You could almost see the red of the strawberries getting up into his cheeks. He's not quite so far as that, though. Like them! He raised himself half up and lay on his elbow to eat them. Think of that! You should have seen the fellow. Spoons were no go. He just forked them in with his fingers."
"Does he lie in the entry yet, David?"
"No. His mother has got him into her bit of a room, and the wash tub is where he was. I do think we might get him into the country next week, if there was any place he could go to. He's like another boy, with a bed under him and clean things and food that he can eat. I do believe he was starving to death. Sick folks can't get along on dry crusts, or even mush—plain, without butter or molasses," said David smiling.
"David, I have thought of something."
"What is it? Something to help us out of the difficulty?"
"I don't know. See what you think. You heard Miss Redwood and me talking of Lilac lane, and people that live in it?"
"I heard nothing of Lilac lane; never did, till this minute."
"O you were in the study with Mr. Richmond. It is a place in Shadywalk where some very poor people live."
"Well?" said David.
"But it is a delightful place compared to Mrs. Binn's tenement house. I know some of the people there, and Miss Redwood knows more; and I was thinking, perhaps she could find a house where they would take Josh in and take care of him till he gets well. Miss Redwood could see to him a little, you know."
"Why it's a capital idea, Tilly!" cried David. "Did you write and ask her?"
"No, but I will."
"Do, to-day. That's just what he wants. Write, Tilly. I must be off to my work."
Nothing stopped David's work, in these days; indeed he never had been given to playing truant. Matilda pondered the matter a little, and then wrote a letter to Miss Redwood; upon which letter, when it reached Shadywalk, the housekeeper and the minister held consultation. The end was, that after a week Matilda got an answer which said that the poor family opposite Matilda's old Sally in Lilac lane, the same from whom she had borrowed the teakettle once upon a time, had room to spare and would gladly take the sick child in and take care of him, for the compensation which would be offered. Miss Redwood also engaged herself to see that proper care was had and proper food given; and in short the way was clear.
"That will do," said David when he had read the letter. "Now, the thing is to get him up there."
"Is Mrs. Binn willing?"
"She is one of the willingest persons you ever saw in your life."
"Well, how will you manage, David?"
"I don't see any way but to go myself."
"Go up to Shadywalk, you mean, to take the child there?"
"Yes."
"O, David, would you! And could you?"
"I don't see any other way."
"But school? will you miss a day?"
"Can't do that; and can't even give Saturday, so near the end of term. I'll manage it."
"How, David?"
"Go up after school some day, and take a night train down."
"Is Josh—I mean, has he any clothes fit to travel in?"
"He has not any fit to sit up in at home. Never mind, I'll manage that, Tilly."
"David, you tell me some of the things he wants, and I'll get Sarah Staples and her mother to make them."
"Well.—But I'll pay charges, Tilly; I don't believe you've got much in that little pocket of yours."
This consultation was private; and in private the new clothes for Joshua Binn were procured and got ready; very plain and coarse clothes, for David and Matilda were learning how much there was to do with their money. All this caused no remark, not being open to it. But when David took little Josh, wrapped up in an old cloak of his, and drove with him in a carriage to the station, and took the cars with him to Shadywalk, there was a general outcry and burst of astonishment and indignation. David was at breakfast the next morning as usual; and the storm fell upon him.
"I wonder how you feel this morning," said his grandmother, half in displeasure and half in sympathy; for David was a favourite.
"After travelling all night," added Mrs. Laval.
"Up to study, Davy?" asked Norton.
"I am so astonished at you, David, that I do not know how to speak," began his mother. "You—always until now a refined, gentlemanly boy,—youto turn yourself into a head hospital nurse, and Poor Society agent! travelling in company with the lowest riff-raff! I don't know what to make of you. Really, I am in despair."
"He always was a poke," said Judy; "and now he's a poor poke."
"It is too bad!" echoed Mrs. Laval; "thoughthatisn't true, Judy."
"He's a spoiled boy," said Judy. "I wash my hands of him. I hope he'll washhishands."
"The idea!" said Mrs. Bartholomew. "As if there was nobody else in the world to look after sick children, but Davy must leave his own business and go nursing them in the cars! I wouldn't have had anybody see him for a thousand dollars."
"What harm, mamma?" asked David coolly.
"Harm?" repeated Mrs. Bartholomew. "Is ityourbusiness to take all sick New York and all poor New York on your hands, and send them to watering places?"
"One poor little child?" said David.
"No matter; what's the use of sending one, if you don't send the other hundred thousand? Is it your business, David Bartholomew?"
"Hardly, mamma. But I thought the one was my business."
"There you were mistaken. There are two or three poor societies; it is for them to look after these cases. What is the use of having poor societies, if we are to do the work ourselves? So low! so undignified! so degrading! just ask any minister,—ask Dr. Blandford,—what he thinks."
"David don't care, mamma," said Judy. "David never cares what anybody thinks."
"Very wrong, then," said Mrs. Bartholomew; "every right-feeling person cares what other people think. How is the world to get along? David, I don't know you any more, you are so changed."
"Yes, mamma," said David; "perhaps I am."
"Perhaps you are? Why my patience!"—
"Your patience seems to have given out, daughter," said Mrs. Lloyd. "Come, let Davy eat his breakfast."
"He's eating it," said Judy. "Nothing will hurt David's appetite."
"I should think nursing poor folks out of tenement houses might," observed Mrs. Bartholomew. "It would once."
"I can't imagine, mamma," said Judy, "how we are going to live together in future. David isn't our sort any more. Life looks dark to me."
"If it was anybody but David," said Mrs. Bartholomew, "I should say he would grow out of it. Any other young fool would."
"Grow out of what, mamma?" David asked.
"Grow out of the notion of being an agent of the poor societies. It's too disgusting!"
"Mamma," he said, and he said it with such an unruffled face that Matilda was comforted, "the poor society would not have done what I did last night. And I am not doing it for the poor societies, but for the King Messiah. I am His agent; that's all."
"Where did you get your commission?" Norton asked.
David hesitated, and then said, "Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you—"
"But that's absolute nonsense!" exclaimed Mrs. Bartholomew.
"What, mamma?" said David, lifting his eyes to her face.
"I mean, of course, the words are not nonsense, but putting such a meaning to them."
"What meaning do you think belongs to them, then, mamma?"
"Why," said Mrs. Bartholomew in high dudgeon, "if you are to take themso, then we ought to send our carriage to take poor people to drive, and we ought to give our grapes and our wine to sick people, instead of eating them ourselves; and I ought to sell my diamonds and change them into bread and coffee and feather beds, I suppose; and our silks and laces ought to go for rents and firing for those who are in want."
"Well, mother?" said David.
"Well; isthatwhat you mean?"
"That's what the words mean, if they mean anything, mamma. I think the King wants all we have got, to be used in his work; and all mine he shall have."
There was no braggadocio, but a sweet steadfastness in the words and manner which impressed all his hearers; though it impressed them differently.
"Mother, what do you think of him?" Mrs. Bartholomew said, apparently in despair.
"I don't know what to think, child," said the old lady. "I am puzzled."
"About me, grandmamma?" asked David.
"No, boy; I never was puzzled about you, and I am not now."
"We'll have grandma going over next!" exclaimed Judy, "and then—What'll be then, mamma? Will this be a hospital, grandmamma? I shouldn't like to live here in that case, because of the fevers. I declare, I'm very sorry! Will David be the doctor or the minister, grandmamma?"
"Hush, Judy!" said her mother. "Things are bad enough without you."
"There's one thing, you vexatious boy," said Judy; "your uncles will give you up."
"They have done that already," said David quietly.
"Have they? O have they really, mamma? Then they won't give him their money when they die! nor me neither. You hateful fellow! to go and make me poor as well as yourself." And Judy began to cry. "I thought we'd be so rich, mamma!"
"Do hold your tongue, Judy," said her mother. "You've got enough, and David much more than enough."
But with this the uncomfortable breakfast party broke up.
"Matilda," said Mrs. Laval when they had gone upstairs,—"I don't know whether you have done good or harm."
"She's done no good, mamma," said Norton. "Just look at Davy. And I can tell you, grandmamma is beginning to read the Bible to herself; I've seen her at it."
"But I haven't done anything, mamma," said Matilda.
"Well, my dear, I don't know who has, then," Mrs. Laval replied.
And the subject was dropped. But certainly Mrs. Lloyd did begin after that to ask Matilda now and then, when they were alone, to read to her; and Matilda found that David did it constantly, by his grandmother's desire, in her own room.
The weeks were few now to the time when the household would break up; Mrs. Laval and her children to return to Briery Bank, Mrs. Bartholomew and hers for a cottage at Newport. Mrs. Lloyd was accustomed to abide generally with the latter. All the members of the family were busied with their various preparations; and the unsettled feeling of coming change was upon the whole household. Little else was thought of. So when an invitation came from the mother of Esther Francis, that all the young ones should join a party of pleasure that were going to spend the day in Westchester, it was a very unlooked for variety in the general course of things. Of course they would go. The young people were to eat strawberries and do everything else that was pleasant, at General Francis's place. Mrs. Francis was not yet ready to leave town; there was nobody in possession but the servants; the widest liberty would be the rule of the day.
"How nice that the boys are out of school!" said Matilda. "Term just ended."
"Of course. Couldn't have the party without the people," said Judy.
"Will there be a great many, Norton?" Matilda asked.
"Don't know anything about it. You must ask somebody else. Esther Francis isn't our cousin."
"How dry you are," said David. "I know no more about it, Matilda, than he does."
"Esther said there would be twenty or thirty," said Judy. "How are we going? that's what I want to know."
"Take the Harlem railroad to the station," said Norton, "and drive the rest. That's the way you always go to General Francis's. Mamma! I'd like to drive Pink out. It's only thirteen miles."
"I'm afraid, Norton. I think you had better all go together."
Norton grumbled a little; however, it was good enough even so.
The day was the first of June; fresh and sweet as the first of June should be. The four were in the cars early; and as soon as the train had got quit of the city, the sights and smells of the country roused Matilda to the highest pitch of delight. Such green fields! such blue sky! such delicious air! and such varieties of pleasant objects that she had not seen for some time! The rush to the station was one whirl of pleasure; then the pleasure grew greater, for they got into a carriage to drive across the country. Every foot of the way, though it was not through a very enchanting landscape, was joyous to Matilda's vision; and when the grounds were reached of General Francis's villa, there was nothing more left in this world to desire. For there were plantations of trees, extending far and wide, with roads and paths cut through them; over which the young fresh foliage cast the sweetest of shadow. There were meadows, broad and fair, green and smooth, with a little river winding along in them, and scattered trees here and there for shade, and fringes of willows and alders to the sides of the stream. And at a little distance stood the large old house, with groves of trees encircling it and lawns before and on one side of it; and on the side lawn, in the edge of the grove, long tables set and spread with damask.
"Dinner already?" queried Norton. "I am hungry enough."
"Dinner at ten o' clock!" cried Judy. "Breakfast, you mean."
"Esther, is it breakfast?" asked Norton, as their little hostess came to them.
"It is what you like, Mr. Laval," said the little lady; whose pink bows were not more in style than her manners.
"Norton is hungry, Esther," David remarked.
"I hope you are, too."
"What are you going to give us, Esther?" said Judy eagerly. "We are all like bears. Strawberries?"
"We must wait for another carriage. The Grandsons are coming."
"I wouldn't wait," said Judy. "What's the use? Ten o' clock is late enough for breakfast."
"But we shall not have the collation till three."
"What have you got for breakfast?"
"Coffee."
"And strawberries?"
"Haven't you had any strawberries this year?"
"Lots; but not in the country, you know, where they grow."
"And not with such yellow cream as we have got from our dairy."
"Will you have cream enough for all, Esther?" David asked, as coming round the house they saw a small crowd of young people collected near the tables. Esther smiled and bridled, and then there was no more private talk, but a whole chorus of greetings and questions and answers. And then another carriage drew up, with the missing Grandsons; and the party went to breakfast.
It seemed to Matilda that to eat under the shadow of trees, and on the carpet of the grass, and with the music of leaves and insects and breezes, was the very most delightful thing that could be invented. She was very hungry, no doubt; and Mrs. Francis's excellent cook had made capital provision for her young mistress; but besides all that, how pretty it was! The light flickered through the oak leaves upon the white tablecloths, and gleamed from china and glass and silver in the most cheery way; it gleamed upon the little river too and upon the blades of grass on the lawn. Out there the sunshine was full; the eye went across to the scattered trees and to the further woods on the other side; a great promising playground it looked. And then the air was so sweet and fresh. Matilda was not seated very well for her pleasure; nobody near that she knew very well; nevertheless she eat her strawberries and cream and devoured rolls and butter with a contented appreciation of what she had, and an amused observation of what was around her.
How were they to spend the day?
This question received earnest attention as soon as the business of breakfast was off their hands.
"Day is pretty well gone already," said Norton consulting his watch. "It is twelve o' clock. There is not time for anything else but to have dinner and go home."
"We do not dine till four o' clock," Esther announced.
"Four hours," said somebody. "Time enough to get hungry again. I'll take anybody that wants to go a row on the river; if somebody'll help me row."
"Everybody do what everybody likes until three o' clock," said Esther. "Suppose then, at three o' clock, we all gather in the pavilion and have games?"
Unanimous acceptance of this proposal. Then a flutter and division and scattering of the little crowd.
Matilda wondered whatshewould do, or be asked to do. She would have liked the sail on the Bronx; but so would a good many more. The little boat was very soon filled with the eager applicants, and David volunteered to help row it. One of Matilda's friends was thus removed from her. She turned to look for Norton. He was not to be seen. A general stampede of the boys to the stables made it supposable that he was in the midst of the gay little group rushing that way. Matilda looked around her. The tables were deserted; the little boat had disappeared up the stream; all the boys were gone; and one or two groups of girls, unknown to her, were loitering over the grass towards the house. A flush of vexation and embarrassment came over Matilda. Was this civility? and what was she to do with herself for three hours to come? And how disagreeable, to be regarded as of no consequence and no concern to anybody. Tears swelled in their fountains, but Matilda was not going to cry. She would not linger alone by the table; she did not know her way in the house, and besides would not seek those who should properly seek her; she turned her steps to the little river. The flowing water had a great charm for her; the bank was smooth and green; she wandered along till she came to what she called a nice place, where a young willow hung over and dipped its long branches in, and the bank offered a soft shady seat. Matilda sat down, and felt very lonely. But glimpses taken through the trees and shrubbery shewed her nobody near or far, except the servants; and Matilda resolved to be quiet and wait for better things by and by. She looked at her watch; it was half past twelve. I am bound to confess it was a good half hour more before Matilda could get the better of a desperate fit of disappointment and vexation. She had not counted upon spending her holiday in this manner; and slights and unkindness are pleasant to nobody. There is something in use, however, and more in a quiet mind. The little girl's roiled feelings at last ran clear again; and she began to enjoy things after her own fashion.
The ripple and flow of that water was certainly delicious; it made one cool only to hear it. She could get down to the brink too and cautiously dip her hand in. There were little fishes in a shallow there; their play and movement were very amusing, and Matilda went into deep speculation about how much they knew, and what they felt, and what their manner of life amounted to, and how they probably regarded the strange creature looking down at them. Very much she wondered what they could eat to live upon. The water plants that grew along the stream had Matilda's attention too, and the mosses that covered the stones. And one or two grasshoppers finally proved a great source of entertainment. She quite forgot to feel lonely, and was taking her enjoyment in a very harmonious way; when she heard a different swash of the water and the dip of oars, and the boat shot round a curve and came down the stream. She watched it, wondering whether its crew would see her. Just opposite her willow the oars stopped.
"Is that you, Tilly?" David cried.
A small "yes" came from the bank.
"What are you doing there?"
"O, amusing myself."
"Where is everybody else?"
"I don't know."
"Where's Norton?"
"I don't know. I think he went to see the horses."
"Come down to the landing," said David after a moment's pause.
Matilda nodded, and the boat shot forward again. It had turns to take following the course of the stream; while she on the land could cut across points, and she reached the landing place the first.
The little party landed with cries of pleasure, and the next thing, set off on a run for the house. David purposely hung back, so that he and Matilda in a few minutes were behind all the others.
"Where is everybody?" inquired David.
"I don't know."
"What have you been doing all this while?"
"It was very pretty down by the water, David. I didn't mind;—at least, not after the first. It was very pleasant there."
"All alone?"
"Yes; except the fishes and the grasshoppers."
"Well—I shall cut out the fishes now."
David kept his word. A deputation of the boys met them and begged him to go where the others were riding. David went, but kept hold of Matilda's hand, though warned that "the girls" were finding other amusements in the house. Matilda was taken into the meadow where the boys and the horses were congregated; a safe seat was found for her on the wall, from whence she could survey the whole field; and though David took his share in the amusements that followed, riding and racing with the other boys, he never let her feel herself forgotten or alone; stopping his horse every now and then in front of her to say something and find out if she was happy. Matilda was very happy, greatly amused, and intensely pleased that David had constituted himself her protector. The hours sped along; the soft June sun was never too hot; the little white clouds that crossed the sky cast shadows not needed for the busy pleasure seekers, nor even for the quiet spectator. At last Matilda heard a shout behind her.