The light of day was darkening fast, as Matilda ran home. Even the western sky gave no glow, when she reached her own gate and went in. After all, she had run but a very little way, in her first hurry; the rest of the walk was taken with sober steps.
When she came down-stairs, she found the lamp lit and all the young heads of the family clustering together to look at something. It was Anne's purchase, she found; Anne had spent her aunt's gift in the purchase of a new silk dress; and she was displaying it.
"It is a lovely colour," said Maria. "I think that shade of—what do you call it? is just the prettiest in the world. Whatdoyou call it, Clarissa? and where did you get it, Anne?"
"It is pearl gray," said Clarissa.
"I would have got blue, while I was about it," said Letitia; "there is nothing like blue; and it becomes you, Anne. You ought to have got blue. I would have had one dress that suited me, if I was you, if I never had another."
"This will suit me, I think," said Anne.
"Aren't you going to trim it with anything? Dresses are so much trimmed now-a-days; and this colour will not be anything unless you trim it."
Anne replied by producing the trimming. The exclamations of delight and approval lasted for several minutes.
"What are you going to get, Letitia?" Maria asked.
"I have not decided."
"I don't know, but I will have a watch," said Maria. "You can get a very good silver watch, a really good one, you know for twenty-five dollars."
"But a silver watch!" said Anne. "I would not wear anything but a gold watch."
"How am I going to get a gold watch, I should like to know?" said Maria. "I think it would be splendid."
"But what do you want of a watch, Maria?" her little sister asked.
"Oh, here is Matilda coming out! Just like her! Not a word about Anne's dress; and now she says, what do I want with a watch. Why, what other people want with one; I want to see the time of day."
"I don't think you do," said Matilda. "When do you?"
"Why, I should like to know in school, when it is recess time; and at home, when it is time to go to school."
"But the bell rings," said Matilda.
"Well, I don't always hear the bell, child."
"But when you don't hear it, I tell you."
"Yes, and it's very tiresome to have you telling me, too. I'd rather have my own watch. But I don't know what I will have; sometimes I think I'll just buy summer dresses, and then for once I'd have a plenty; I do like to have plenty of anything. And there's a necklace and earrings at Mr. Kurtz's that I want. Such lovely earrings!"
"Well, Matilda, what are you thinking of?" Letitia burst forth. "Such a face! One would think it was wicked to wear earrings. What is it, you queer child?"
But Matilda did not say what she was thinking of. The elder ladies came in, and the party adjourned to the tea-table.
A few hours later, when the girls had gone to their room, Matilda asked—
"When are you going to look for new scholars, Maria?"
"What?" was Maria's energetic and not very graceful response.
"When are you going to look for some new scholars to bring to the school?"
"The Sunday-School!" said Maria. "I thought you meant the school where we go every day. I don't know."
"You promised you would try."
"Well, so I will, when I see any Icanbring."
"But don't you think you ought to go and look for them?"
"How can I, Tilly? I don't know where to go; and I haven't got time, besides."
"I think I know where we could go," said Matilda, "and maybe we could get one, at any rate. Don't you know the Dows' house? on the turnpike road?—beyond the bridge ever so far?"
"The Dows'!" said Maria. "Yes, I know the Dows' house; but who's there? Nothing but old folks."
"Yes, there are two children; I have seen them; two or three; but they don't come to school."
"Then I don't believe they want to," said Maria; "they could come if they wanted to, I am sure."
"Don't you think we might go and ask them? Perhaps they would come if anybody asked them."
"Yes, we might," said Maria; "but you see, Tilly, I haven't any time. It'll take me every bit of time I can get between now and Sunday to finish putting the braid on that frock; you have no idea how much time it takes. It curls round this way, and then twists over that way, and then gives two curls, so and so; and it takes a great while to do it. I almost wish I had chosen an easier pattern; only this is so pretty."
"But you promised, Maria."
"I didn't promise to go and look up people, child. I only promised to do what I could. Besides, what haveyougot to do with it? You did not promise at all."
"I will go with you, if you will go up to the Dows'," said Matilda.
"Oh, well!—don't worry, and I'll see about it."
"But will you go? Come, Maria, let us go."
"When?"
"Any afternoon. To-morrow."
"What makes you want to go?" said Maria, looking at her.
"I think yououghtto go," Matilda answered, demurely.
"And I say, what have you got to do with it? I don't see what particular concern of mine the Dows are, anyhow."
Matilda sat a long while thinking after this speech. She was on the floor, pulling off her stockings and unlacing her boots; and while her fingers moved slowly, drawing out the laces, her cogitations were very busy. What concernwerethe Dows of hers or Maria's? They were not pleasant people to go near, she judged, from the look of their house and dooryard as she had seen it in passing; and the uncombed, fly-away head of the little girl gave her a shudder as she remembered it. They were not people that were often seen in church; they could not be good; maybe they used bad language; certainly they could not be expected to know how to "behave." Slowly the laces were pulled out of Matilda's boots, and her face grew into portentous gravity.
"Aren't you coming to bed?" said Maria. "What can you be thinking of?"
"I am thinking of the Dows?"
"What about them? I never thought about them three times in my life."
"But oughtn't we to think about people, Maria?"
"Nice people."
"I mean, people that are not nice."
"It will be new times when you do," said Maria. "Come! let the Dows alone and come to bed."
"Maria," said her little sister as she obeyed this request, "I was thinking that Jesus thought about people that were not nice."
"Well?" said Maria. "Do lie down! what is the use of getting into bed, if you are going to sit bolt upright like that and talk lectures? I don't see what has got into you."
"Maria, it seems to me, now I think of it, that those were the particular people He did care about."
"Don't you think He cared about good people?" said Maria, indignantly.
"But they were not good at first. Nobody was good at first—till He made them good. HesaidHe didn't come to the good people; don't you remember?"
"Well, what do you mean by all that? Are we not to care for anybody but the people that are not good? A nice life we should have of it?"
"Maria," said her little sister, very thoughtfully, "I wonder what sort of a life He had?"
"Tilly!" said Maria, rising up in her turn, "what has come to you? What book have you been reading? I shall tell mamma."
"I have not been reading any book," said Matilda.
"Then lie down and quit talking. How do you expect I am going to sleep?"
"Let us go and see what we can do at the Dows, Maria, to-morrow, won't you?"
But Maria either did not or would not hear; so the matter passed for that night. But the next day Matilda brought it up again. Maria found excuses to put her off. Matilda, however, was not to be put off permanently; she never forgot; and day after day the subject came up for discussion, until Maria at last consented.
"I am going because you tease me so, Tilly," she said, as they set forth from the gate. "Just for that and nothing else. I don't like it a bit."
"But you promised."
"I didn't."
"To bring in new scholars?"
"I did not promise I would bring the Dow children; and I don't believe they'll come."
The walk before the children was not long, and yet it almost took them out of the village. They passed the corner this time without turning, keeping the road, which was indeed part of the great high road which took Shadywalk in its way, as it took many another village. The houses in this direction soon began to scatter further apart from each other. They were houses of more pretension, too, with grounds and gardens and fruit trees about them; and built in styles that were notable, if not according to any particular rule. Soon the ground began to descend sharply towards the bed of a brook, which brawled along with impetuous waters towards a mill somewhere out of sight. It was a full, fine stream, mimicking the rapids and eddies of larger streams, with all their life and fury given to its smaller current. The waters looked black and wintry in contrast with the white snow of the shores. A foot-bridge spanned the brook, alongside of another bridge for carriages; and just beyond, the black walls of a ruin showed where another fine mill had once stood. That mill had been burnt. It was an old story; the girls did not so much as think about it now. Matilda's glance had gone the other way, where the stream rushed along from under the bridge and hurried down a winding glen, bordered by a road that seemed well traversed. A house could be seen down the glen, just where the road turned in company with the brook and was lost to view.
"I wonder who lives down there?" said Matilda.
"I don't know. Yes, I do, too; but I have forgotten."
"I wonder if they come to church."
"I don't knowthat;and I shall not go to ask them. Why, Matilda, you never cared before whether people went to church."
"Don't you care now?" was Matilda's rejoinder.
"No! I don't care. I don't know those people. They may go to fifty churches, for aught I can tell."
"But, Maria,"—said her little sister.
"What?"
"I do not understand you."
"Very likely.Thatisn't strange."
"But, Maria,—you promised the other night—O Maria, what things you promised!"
"What then?" said Maria. "What do you mean? What did I promise?"
"You promised you would be a servant of Christ," Matilda said, anxiously.
"Well, what if I did?" said Maria. "Of course I did; what then. Am I to find out whether everybody in Shadywalk goes to church, because I promised that? It is not my business."
"Whose business is it?"
"It is Mr. Richmond's business and Mr. Everett's business; and Mr. Schönflocker's business. I don't see what makes it mine."
"Then you ought not to have said that you would bring new scholars to the school, I think, if you did not mean to do it; and whom do you mean to carry the message to, Maria? You said you would carry the message."
"I don't know what carrying the message means," said Maria.
Matilda let the question drop, and they went on their way in silence; rising now by another steep ascent on the other side of the brook, having crossed the bridge. The hill was steep enough to give their lungs play without talking. At the top of the hill the road forked; one branch turned off southwards; the high road turned east; the sisters followed this. A little way further, and both slackened their steps involuntarily as the house they were going to came full in view.
It was like a great many others; brown with the weather, and having a certain forlorn look that a house gets when there are no loving eyes within it to care how it looks. The doors did not hang straight; the windows had broken panes; a tub here and a broken pitcher there stood in sight of every passer-by. A thin wreath of smoke curled up from the chimney, so it was certain that people lived there; but nothing else looked like it. The girls went in through the rickety gate. Over the house the bare branches of a cherry tree gave no promise of summery bloom; and some tufts of brown stems standing up from the snow hardly suggested the gay hollyhocks of the last season. The two girls slackened their steps yet more, and seemed not to know very well how to go on.
"I don't like it, Tilly," Maria said. "I have a mind to give it up."
"Oh, I wouldn't, Maria," the little one replied; but she looked puzzled and doubtful.
"Well, suppose they don't want to see us in here? it don't look as if they did."
"We can try, Maria; it will do no harm to try."
"I don't know that," said Maria. "I'll never come such an errand again, Matilda; never! I give you notice of that. What shall I do? Knock?"
"I suppose so."
Maria knocked. The next minute the upper half of the door was opened, and an oldish woman looked out. A dirty woman, with her hair all in fly-away order, and her dress very slatternly as well as soiled.
"What do you want?"
"Are there some children here?" Maria began.
"Children? yes, there's children here. There's my children."
"Do they go to school?"
"Has somebody been stealin' something, and you want to know if it's my children have done it?" said the woman. "'Cos they don't go to no school thatyouever see."
"I did not mean any such thing," said Maria, quite taken aback.
"Well, whatdidyou mean?" the woman asked sharply.
"We want to see the children," Matilda put in. "May we come in and get warm, if you please?"
The woman still held the door in her hand, and looked at the last speaker from head to foot; then half reluctantly opened the door.
"I don't know as it'll hurt you to come in," she said; "but it won't do you much good; the place is all in a clutter, and it always is. Come along in, if you want to! and shut the door; 'tain't so warm here you'll need the wind in to help you. Want the children, did you say? what do you want of 'em?"
Matilda thought privately that the wind would have been a good companion after all; no sooner was the door shut, than all remembrance of fresh air faded away. An inexpressible atmosphere filled the house, in which frying fat, smoke, soapsuds, and the odour of old garments, mingled and combined in proportions known to none but such dwelling-places. Yet it was not as bad as it might have been, by many degrees; the house was a little frame house, open at the joints; and it stood in the midst of heaven's free air; all the winds that came from the mountains and the river swept over and around it, came down the chimney sometimes, and breathed blessed breaths through every opening door and shackling window-frame. But to Matilda it seemed as bad as could be. So it seemed to her eyes too. Nothing clean; nothing comfortable; nothing in order; scraps of dinner on the floor; scraps of work under the table; a dirty cat in the corner by the stove; a wash tub occupying the other corner. The woman had her sleeves rolled up, and now plunged her arms into the tub again.
"You can put in a stick of wood, if you want to," she said; "I guess the fire's got down. What did you come here for, hey? I hain't heard that yet, and I'm in a takin' to find out."
"We thought maybe your children might like to go to Sunday-School," said Maria, with a great deal of trepidation; "and we just came to ask them. That's all."
"How did ye know but they went already?" the woman asked, looking at Maria from the corner of her eye.
"I didn't know. I just came to ask them."
"Well, I just advise you not to mix yourself with people's affairs till youdoknow a little about 'em. What business is it o' yourn, eh, whether my children goes to Sunday-School? Sunday-School! what a poke it is!"
"They did not come toourSunday-School," said Matilda, for her sister was nonplussed; "and we would like to have them come; unless they were going somewhere else."
"They may speak for themselves," said Mrs. Dow; and she opened an inner door, and called in a shrill voice—"Araminty!—Jemimy!—Alexander!—come right along down, and if ye don't I'll whip ye."
She went back to her washing-tub, and Maria and Matilda looked to see three depressed specimens of young human life appear at that inner door; but first tumbled down and burst in a sturdy, rugged young rascal of some eight or nine years; and after him a girl a little older, with the blackest of black eyes and hair, the latter hanging straight over her face and ears. The eyes of both fastened upon their strange visitors, and seemed as if they would move no more.
"Them girls is come to get you to their Sunday-School," said the mother. "Don't you want for to go?"
No answer, and no move of the black eyes. Matilda certainly thought they looked as if they feared the lifting of no mortal hand, their mother's or any other.
"Would you like to go to Sunday-School?" inquired Maria politely, driven to speak by the necessities of the silence. But she might as well have asked Mrs. Dow's wash-tub. The mother laughed a little to herself.
"Guess you might as well go along back the road ye come!" she said. "You won't get my Araminty Jemimy into no Sunday-School o' yourn this time. Maybe when she's growed older and wiser-like, she'll come and see you. She don' know what a Sunday-School's like. She thinks it's some sort of a trap."
"I ain't afraid!" spoke out black eyes.
"I didn't say you was," said her mother. "I might ha' said you was cunnin' enough to keep your foot out of it."
"It is not a trap," said Matilda, boldly. "It is a pleasant place, where we sing, and learn nice things."
"My children don't want to learn none o' your nice things," said the woman. "I can teach 'em to home."
"But you don't!" said black eyes. "You don'tneverlearn usnothing!"
There was not the slightest sweet desire of learning evidenced in this speech. It breathed nothing but defiance.
"Alexander, won'tyoucome?" said Matilda, timidly, as her sister moved to the door. For Maria's courage gave out. But at that question the young urchin addressed set up a roar of hoarse laughter, throwing himself down and rolling over on the floor. His mother shoved him out of her way with a push that was very like a kick, and his sister, seizing a wringing wet piece of clothes from the wash-tub, dropped it spitefully on his head. There was promise of a fight; and Matilda and Maria hurried out. They hastened their steps through the garden, and even out in the high road they ran a little to get away from Mrs. Dow's neighbourhood.
"Well!" said Maria, "what do you think now, Tilly? I hope you have got enough for once of this kind of thing. I promise you I have."
"Hush!" said Matilda. "Some one is calling."
They stopped and turned. A shout was certainly sent after them from the gate they had quitted—"Girls, hollo!—Sunday-School girls, hollo!"
"Do you hear?" said Matilda.
"Sunday-School girls!—come back!"
"What can they want?" said Maria.
"We must go see," said Matilda.
So they went towards the gate again. By the gate they could soon see the shock head of Alexander; he had got rid of the wash-tub and his mother and his sister—all three; and he was waiting there to speak to them. The girls hurried up again till they confronted his grinning face on the other side of the gate.
"What do you want?" said Maria. "What do you call us back for?"
"I didn't call you," said the boy.
"Yes, you did; you called us back; and we have come back all this way. What do you want to say?"
Alexander's face was dull, even in his triumph. No sparkle or gleam of mischief prepared the girls for his next speech.
"I say—ain't you green!"
But another shout of rude laughter followed it; and another roll and tumble, though these last were on the snow. Maria and her sister turned and walked away till out of hearing.
"I never heard of such horrible people!" said Maria; "never! And this is what you get, Matilda, by your dreadful going after Sunday-scholars and such things. I do hope you have got enough of it."
But Matilda only drew deep sighs, one after another, at intervals, and made no reply.
"Don't you see what a goose you are?" persisted Maria. "Don't you see?"
"No," said Matilda. "I don't see that."
"Well, you might. Just look at what a time we have had, only because you fancied there were two children at that house."
"Well, therearetwo children."
"Such children!" said Maria,
"I wish Mr. Richmond would go to see them," said Matilda.
"It would be no use for Mr. Richmond or anybody to go and see them," said Maria. "They are too wicked."
"But you cannot tell beforehand," said Matilda.
"And so I say, Tilly, the only way is to keep out of such places. I hope you'll be content now."
Matilda was hardly content; for the sighs kept coming every now and then. So they went down the hill again, and over the bridge, past the glen and the burnt mill, and began to go up on the other side. Now across the way, at the top of the bank that overhung the dell, there stood a house of more than common size and elegance, in the midst of grounds that seemed to be carefully planted. A fine brick wall enclosed these grounds on the roadside, and at the top of the hill an iron gate gave entrance to them.
"O Tilly," exclaimed Maria, "the Lardners' gate is open. Look! Suppose we go in."
"I should not like to go in," said the little one.
"Why not? There's nobody at home; they haven't come yet; and it's such a good chance. You know, Clarissa says that people have leave to go into people's great places and see them, in England, where she has been."
"But this is not a great place, and we have not leave," urged Matilda.
"Oh well, I'm going in. Come! we'll just go in for a minute. It's no harm. Come just for a minute."
Matilda, however, stopped at the gate, and stood there waiting for her sister; while Maria stepped in cautiously and made her way as far as the front of the house. Here she turned and beckoned to Matilda to join her; but the little one stood fast.
"What does she want of you?" a voice asked at her elbow. Matilda started. Two ladies were there.
"She beckoned for me to go in where she is," said Matilda.
"Well, why don't you go in?"
The voice was kindly; the face of the lady was bending towards her graciously; but who it was Matilda did not know.
"We have no leave to go in," she said. "I do not like to be there."
"I dare say the people would let you come in, if they knew you wished it."
"They do not know," said Matilda.
"What a charming child!" said the lady apart to her companion. "My dear," she went on to Matilda, "will you come in on my invitation? This is my house, and you are welcome. I shall be as glad to see you as you to see the place. Come!"
And she took Matilda's hand and led her in.
Just at the crown of the bank the house stood, and from here the view was very lovely, even now in winter. Over the wide river, which lay full in view with its ice covering, to the opposite shores and the magnificent range of mountains, which, from Matilda's window at home, she could just see in a little bit. The full range lay here before the eye, white with snow, coloured and brightened by the sinking sun, which threw wonderful lights across them, and revealed beautiful depths and shadows. Still, cold, high, far-off; their calm majesty held Matilda's eye.
"Are you looking at the mountains?" said the lady. "Yes, now come in and you shall look at my flowers. Your sister may come too," she added, nodding kindly to Maria; but she kept Matilda's hand, and so led her first upon the piazza, which was a single step above the ground, then into the hall. An octagon hall, paved with marble, and with large white statues holding post around its walls, and a vase of flowers on the balustrade at the foot of the staircase. But those were not the flowers the lady had meant; she passed on to one of the inner rooms, and from that to another, and finally into a pretty greenhouse, with glass windows looking out to the mountains and the river, filled on this side of the windows with tropical bloom. While the girls gazed in wonder, the lady stepped back into the room they had left, and threw off her wrappings. When she came again to the girls in the greenhouse, they hardly knew which to look at, her or the flowers; her dress and whole appearance were so unlike anything they had ever seen.
"Which do you like best?" she said. "The roses, you know, of course; these are camellias,—and these—and these red ones too; all camellias. These are myrtle; these are heath; these are geraniums—all those are geraniums. This is Eupatorium—those, yes, those are azaleas, and those,—and all those. Yes, all azaleas. You like them? This is bigonia. What do you like best?"
It was a long while before Matilda could divide and define her admiration enough to tell what she liked best. Carnations and heath were found at last to have her best favour. The lady cut a bouquet for her with plenty of carnations and heath, but a variety of other beauty too; then led the girls into the other room and offered them some rich cake and a glass of what Matilda supposed to be wine. She took the cake and refused the cordial.
"It is very sweet," said the lady. "You will not dislike it; and it will warm you, this cold afternoon."
"I may not drink wine, ma'am, thank you," Matilda answered.
"It is not wine. Does it make you sick, my dear? Are you afraid to try it? Your sister is not afraid. I think it will do you good."
Being thus reassured, Matilda put the glass to her lips, but immediately set it down again.
"You do not like it?" said the lady.
"I like it; but—it is strong?" said Matilda, inquiringly.
"Why, yes, it would not be good for anything if it were not strong. Never mind that—if you like it. The glass does not hold but a thimbleful, and a thimbleful will not hurt you. Why, why not, my dear?"
Matilda looked up, and coloured and hesitated.
"I have promised not," she said.
"So solemnly?" said the lady, laughing. "Is it your mother you have promised?"
"No, ma'am."
"Not your mother? You have a mother?"
"Oh yes, ma'am."
"Would she have any objection?"
"No, ma'am—I believe not."
"Then whom have you made your promise to? Is it a religious scruple that some one has taught you?"
"I have promised to do all I could for helping temperance work," Matilda said at last.
She was answered with a little ringing laugh, not unkindly but amused; and then her friend said gravely—
"Your taking a glass of cordial in this house would not affect anything or anybody, little one. It would domeno harm. I drink a glass of wine every day with my dinner. I shall go on doing it just the same. It will not make a bit of difference to me, whether you take your cordial or not."
But Matilda looked at the lady, and did not look at her glass.
"Do you think it will?" said the lady, laughing.
"No, ma'am."
"Then your promise to help temperance work does not touch the cordial."
"No ma'am, but——"
"But?—what 'but'?"
"It touches me."
"Does it?" said the lady. "That is odd. You think a promise is a promise. Here is your sister taking her cordial; she has not made the same promise, I suppose?"
Maria and Matilda glanced at each other.
"She has?" cried the lady. "Yet you see she does not think as you do about it."
The sisters did not look into each other's eyes again. Their friend watched them both.
"I should like to know whom you have made such a promise to," she said coaxingly to Matilda. "Somebody that you love well enough to make you keep it. Won't you tell me? It is not your mother, you said. To whom did you make that promise, dear?"
Matilda hesitated and looked up into the lady's face again.
"I promised—the Lord Jesus," she said.
"Good patience! she's religious!" the lady exclaimed, with a change coming over her face; Matilda could not tell what it was, only it did not look like displeasure. But she was graver than before, and she pressed the cordial no more; and at parting she told Matilda she must certainly come and see her again, and she should always have a bunch of flowers to pay her. So the girls went home, saying nothing at all to each other by the way.
It was tea-time at home by the time they got there. All during the meal, Maria held forth upon the adventures of the afternoon, especially the last.
"Mamma, those people are somebody," she concluded.
"I hope I am somebody," said Mrs. Englefield.
"Oh but you know what I mean, mamma."
"I am not clear that I do."
"And I, Maria,—am I not somebody?" her aunt asked.
"Well, we're allsomebody, of course, in one sense. Of course we're notnobody."
"I am not so sure what you think about it," said Mrs. Candy. "I think that in your language, who isn't somebody is nobody."
"Oh, well, we'resomebody," said Maria. "But if you could see the splendid bunch of jewels that hung at Mrs. Laval's breast, you would know I say the truth."
"Now we are getting at Maria's meaning," observed Clarissa.
"I have no bunch of jewels hanging at my breast," said Mrs. Englefield; "ifthatis what she means by 'somebody.'"
"How large a bunch was it, Maria?" her aunt asked.
"And is it certain that Maria's eyes could tell the true from the false, in such a matter as a bunch of jewellery?" suggested Clarissa. "They have not had a great deal of experience."
Maria fired up. "I just wish you could see them for yourself!" she said. "False jewels, indeed! They sparkle like flashes of lightning. All glittering and flashing, red and white. I never saw anything so beautiful in all my life. And if you saw the rest of the dress, you would know that they couldn't be false jewels."
"What sort of a face had she?"
"I don't know,—handsome."
"The bunch of jewels dazzled Maria's eyes," said Clarissa, sipping her tea.
"No, not handsome, Maria," Matilda said.
"Well, not handsome exactly, but pleasant. She had curls, and lightish hair; but her dress was so handsome, it made her look handsome. She took aterriblefancy to Matilda."
"Matilda is the youngest," said her mother.
"It was thanks to Matilda we got into the house at all; and Matilda had the flowers. Nobody spoke of giving me any flowers."
"Well, you know you do not care for them," interposed Matilda.
"Mamma, those people are somebody—I can tell you!"
"You speak as if there were nobody else in Shadywalk, Maria, that is anybody."
"Well, Aunt Candy, I don't know any people like these."
"Maria, you talk nonsense," said her mother.
"Mamma, it is just what Aunt Erminia would say herself, if she knew the people."
"What makes anybody 'somebody,' I should like to know? and what do you mean by it? Am I nobody, because I cannot wear red and white jewels at my throat?"
"It wasn't at her throat at all, mamma; it was just here—on her waist."
"Abouquet de corsage," said Clarissa. "Thewaist, as you call it, is at the belt."
"Well, I am not a mantua-maker," said Maria.
"No more than we are somebody," said Mrs. Candy.
"Well, you know what I mean," said Maria; "and you all think exactly the same. There is nobody else in Shadywalk that dresses so, or that has such flowers, or that has such a house."
"Who are they, these people that she talks of?" Mrs. Candy asked.
"They have lately bought the place. I know nothing about them. They were here for a little while in the summer; but only to turn everything upside down in the house and grounds, and make changes. I cannot imagine what has brought them here, to the country, in the depth of winter. They had nothing to do with anybody in Shadywalk, that I know of. Perhaps they will, now they have got in order. I believe they have lived out of America a good deal."
"Is that what you mean by 'somebody,' Maria?" her aunt asked. "Perhaps I am 'somebody,' according to that."
Maria's thoughts would not bear to be spoken, it seemed, for she did not speak them; and it must be a strong reason that kept Maria's opinions to herself. However, the family found something else to talk about, and Mrs. Laval was not mentioned again till Maria and Matilda went up to bed. Then Matilda had something to say.
"Maria," she began with judicial gravity, "what was that Mrs. Laval gave us to drink?"
"I don't know," said Maria; "but it was the best thing I ever tasted in all my life. It was some sort of wine, I guess; it was strong enough. But it was sweet; oh, it was nice!"
"And you drank it!"
"I guess I did! I only wished there was more of it."
"But, Maria!——"
"Well, what, 'Maria'?"
"You promised, Maria, that you would do all you could for temperance work."
"What then? I could not do anything for temperance there, child. As Mrs. Laval said."
"You needn't have drunk the wine."
"Why shouldn't I? Mrs. Laval gave it to me; I couldn't be rude."
"But that is not keeping your promise."
"I made no promise about it. I could do nothing in the world for temperancethere, Tilly. What would Mrs. Laval care for anythingIshould say?"
"But, Maria!" said her little sister, looking puzzled and troubled at once—"you cannot drink wine in one place, and try to hinder people from drinking it in another place."
"Why can't I? It all depends on the place, Tilly, and the people."
"And the wine, I suppose," said Matilda, severely.
"Yes!" said Maria, boldly, "I dare say, if all wine was like that, Mr. Richmond would have no objection to it."
"I don't see, Maria," said her sister, "what you made those promises for the other night. I think you ought not to have got up at all; it was the same as speaking; and if you do not mean to keep promises, you should not make them."
"And what have you got to do with it?" said Maria in her turn. "You did not stand up with the rest of us; you have no business to lecture other people that are better than yourself. I am going to keep all the promises I ever made; but I did not engage to go poking into Mrs. Dow's wash kitchen, nor to be rude to Mrs. Laval; and I don't mean to do the one or the other, I give you notice."
Matilda drew another of the long breaths that had come so many times that afternoon, and presently remarked that she was glad the next meeting of the Band would come in a few days.
Maria sharply inquired, "Why?"
"Because," said Matilda, "I hope Mr. Richmond will talk to us. I don't understand about things."
"Of course you don't!" said Maria; "and if I were you I would not be so wise, till I did 'understand.'"
Matilda got into bed, and Maria sat down to finish putting the braid on her dress.
"Tilly, what are you going to get with your twenty-five dollars?"
"I don't know yet."
"I don't know whether I shall get a watch, or a dress, like Anne; or something else. What would you?"
"I don't know."
"Whatareyou going to get with your money, Matilda?"
"I can't tell, Maria. I know what I am going to do with part; but I don't know what I am going to do with the other part."
Maria could get no more from her.
Nothing new happened in the family before the evening came for what Maria called the "Band meeting." Matilda went about between home and the school extremely quiet and demure, and reserved rather more than ordinary; but reserve was Matilda's way. Only Maria knew, and it irritated her, that her little sister was careful to lock herself up alone with her Bible, or rather with somebody else's Bible, for Matilda had none of her own, for a good long time every morning and evening. Maria thought sometimes she knew of her doing the same thing at the noon recess. She said nothing, but she watched. And her watching made her certain of it. Matilda unlocked her door and came out always with a face of quiet seriousness and a spirit in armour. Maria could not provoke her (and she tried); nor could any other temptations or difficulties, that she could see, shake a certain steady gentleness with which Matilda went through them. Matilda was never a passionate child, but she had been pleasure-loving and wayward. That was changing now; and Matilda was giving earnest care to her school-work.
The desired evening for the "Band meeting" came, and the young people all went duly to the lecture-room; though Maria reminded her sisters that they did not belong there. Letitia and Anne chose to go in spite of that fact. The room, though not full, was filled towards the upper end; so the party were divided, and it happened that Matilda placed herself apart from her sisters, in the front, at the end of a seat near to Mr. Richmond. He was there already, standing by the little desk.
After the prayer and singing, Mr. Richmond declared that they were come together for a talk; and he meant to make it a talk. He should ask questions when he chose, and everybody else might exercise the same liberty.
"We are going to try to understand things," he said; "and by that somewhat vague expression I mean things connected with our covenant that we have made, and the work we have undertaken. Our covenant begins with the words, 'We are the servants of Christ.' Let us know exactly what we mean. What is it to be a servant of Christ? What is a servant, in the first place?"
There was hesitation; then an answer from somewhere,—"He is somebody who does what he is told."
"That would be a good servant," said Mr. Richmond, smiling; "but it will do. He is one who acts under the will of another, doing the work of another. A servant of Christ—what does he do?—and how does he do it?"
There was no answer this time.
"Let us look," said Mr. Richmond. "In the first verse of the first chapter of his Epistle to the Romans, Paul calls himself a servant of Jesus Christ; and in the ninth verse he says that he serves 'with his spirit.' Here is a mark. The service of Christ, you see, is in the first instance, not outward but inward. Not hand work, nor lip work, nor money giving; but servicein the spirit. What is that?
"It is having your will the same with God's will.
"So now look and see. We all pledged ourselves the other night to do a great many sorts of outward service; good in themselves, and right and needful to do. But the first question is, Are we ourselves the servants of Christ? Do we in heart love and obey and agree to His will? If we are not doing that, or trying to do it, our other service is no service at all. It is a lie, and no service at all. Or it is service of ourselves."
Mr. Richmond paused a little.
"I have no reason to think that any of you did not mean true service, when the pledge was given the other night. So now let us see how this true service shows itself.
"Jesus said, you remember, 'If any man serve me, let him follow me.' All we have to ask is, How did the Lord himself walk, that we should follow Him? I recommend you to study the story of His life very carefully and very constantly, and be continually getting new lessons from it. But now let us look just at one or two points.
"Jesus said, 'As long as I am in the world, I am the Light of the world.' Has he commanded us to be anything like that?"
One of the boys answered, "Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven."
"How can our light shine?"
"Doing good," another boy answered.
"Being good," said one of the girls.
"Very well; but what is there in doing and being good which has any resemblance to light? What does light do?"
"It shows things," a boy said.
"There's no darkness where the light comes," said a little girl.
"Quite true; but how does our doing good and being good, 'show things'? What does it show?"
After a little hesitation a voice replied, "It shows what is right."
"It shows what people ought to do," a boy said.
"It shows what is the will of God about us," said Mr. Richmond; "and the more exactly we are obedient to that will and conformed to it, the more brightly do we give light. And do you see? our light-giving depends on what weare. We give no light, except just so far as we are ourselves what God wills us to be. And then it shines out in all sorts of ways. I knew a little girl whose eyes were like two pure lamps, always; they were so loving and clear and true. I have known several people whose voices gave light as much as harmony; they were so sweet with the tones of a glad heart and a conscience at peace. I have seen faces that shone, almost like angel faces, with the love of God and the joy of heaven and the love of their fellow-men. Now this is the first thing the Lord calls us to be in His service—His light-bearers. The light comes from Him; we must get it from Him; and then we must shine! And of course our actions give light too, if they are obedient to the will of God. A boy who keeps the Sabbath holy is almost as good as a sermon to a boy who doesn't. One who refuses to touch the offered glass of wine, shows the light to another who drinks it. A loving answer shames a harsh spirit; and a child faithful to her duties at school is a beacon of truth to her fellows.
"There is one thing more; and then I will talk to you no longer this evening. Jesus said, 'The Son of man is come to seek and to save that which is lost.' His servants must follow Him. Now, how much are you willing to do,—how far are you willing to go,—to accomplish what He came, and lived, and died for? and how will you set about it?"
There was a long silence here; until Mr. Richmond urged that an answer should be given. Then at last somebody suggested—
"Bringing new scholars to school?"
"That is one thing to be done, certainly; and a very good thing. What else can we attempt? Remember,—it is to seek and to save thelost!"
"We might carry tracts," another suggested.
"You might; and if they are good tracts, and given with a kind word, and followed with a loving prayer, they will not be carried in vain. But to whom will you take them, Frank?"
"Might take them to the boys in the school," Frank thought.
"Where else?"
"Might drop 'era around the corner," Mrs. Rice said.
"Don'tdropthem anywhere, where it is possible to give them," Mr. Richmond replied. "Do not ever be, or seem, ashamed of your wares. Give lovingly to almost anybody, and the gift will not be refused, if you choose the time and place wisely. Take people when they are alone, as much as you can. But thelost, remember. Who are the lost?"
Silence; then a voice spoke—
"People who don't come to church."
"It is a bad sign when people do not come to church," said Mr. Richmond. "Still we may not make that an absolute test. Some people are sick and unable to come; some are deaf and unable to hear if they did come; some are so poor they have not decent clothes. Some live where there are no churches. Who are thelost?"
"People who are not going to heaven," one little girl answered.
"People who are not good," another said.
"People who swear," said a boy.
"Those people who do not love Jesus Christ," was the answer of the fourth.
"That sums it all up," said Mr. Richmond. "Those who do not know the Lord Jesus. They are out of the way to heaven; they have never trusted in His blood for forgiveness; they are not good, for they have not got His help to make them good; and if they do not swear and do other dreadful things, it is only because the temptation is wanting. They are the lost. Now, does not every one of you know some friend or acquaintance who is a lost one? some brother or sister perhaps; or mother or father, or cousin or neighbour, who does not love Jesus the Lord? Those are the very first people for us to seek. Then, outside of those nearest ones, there is a whole world lost. Let us go after all, but especially those who have few to look after them."
"It is harder to speak to those you know, than to those you don't know," Mrs. Trembleton said.
"No matter. Jesus said, 'He that taketh not his cross and followeth after me, cannot be my disciple.' Let us go to the hardest cases."
"Are not tracts best to use with them?" Mrs. Swan asked.
"Use tracts or not, according to circumstances. Your own voice is often better than a tract, if it has the right ring to it. When
''Tis joy, not duty,To speak His beauty.'
Speakthatas often and wherever you can. And 'whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.' Now I have done asking questions, and you may ask me whatever you like. It is your turn."
Mr. Richmond sat down.
But the silence was unbroken.
"I am here to answer questions, remember. Has no one anything to ask? Has no one found any difficulty to be met, and he does not know just how to meet it? Has no one found something to be done, and he does not know just who is to do it? Speak, and tell everything. Now is the time."
Silence again, and then a little boy said—
"I have found a feller that would like, I guess, to come to Sunday-School; but his toes is out o' his shoes."
"Cannot he get another pair?" Mr. Richmond asked gravely.
"I guess not, sir."
"Then it is a case for the 'Aid and Comfort' committee," said Mr. Richmond. "Who is the head of your department? Who is chief of those who are looking up new scholars?"
"John Depeyster."
"Very well. Tell John Depeyster all about your little boy and his toes, and John will go to the head of the relief committee—that is, Miss Forshew—and she will see about it. Very well, Everett; you have made a good beginning. Who is next?"
"I would like to know," said Miss Forshew, in a small voice, "where the relief committee are to get supplies from? If new shoes are to be bought, there must be funds."
"That is the very thing the relief committee undertook, I thought," said Mr. Richmond. "Must there be some scheme to relievethemfirst? Your business abilities can manage that, Miss Forshew, or I am mistaken in them. But, dear friends, we are not going to serve Christ with that which costs us nothing—are we?"
"Mr. Richmond," said Ailie Swan, "may temperance people drink cider?"
The laughter was universal now.
"Because," said Ailie, unabashed, "I was talking to a boy about drinking it; and he said cider was nothing."
"I have seensomecider which was more than negative in its effects," said Mr. Richmond. "I think you were right Ailie. Cider is only the juice of apples, to be sure; but it gets so unlike itself once in a while, that it is quite safe to have nothing to do with it."
"Mr. Richmond," said another girl, "what are you to do if people are rude?"
"The Bible says, 'A soft answer turneth away wrath,' Mary."
"But suppose they will not listen to you?"
"Be patient. People did not always listen to the Master, you remember."
"But would you try again?"
"If I had the least chance. We must not be afraid of 'taking the wind on our face,' as an old writer says. I would try again; and I would pray more for them. Did you try that, Mary?"
"No, sir."
"Don't ever hope to do anything without prayer. Indeed, we must look to God to do all.Weare nothing. If anything is to be accomplished for the service of Christ by our hands, it must be by God's grace working through us and with us; no other way. The power is His, always. So whatever you do, pray, and hope in God, not in yourself."
"Mr. Richmond," said Frances Barth, "I do not understand about 'carrying the message.' What does it mean?"
"You know what the message is? We are commanded to preach the gospel to every creature."
"But how can we do it?—people who are not ministers?"
"It is not necessary to get up into a pulpit to preach the gospel."
"No, sir; but—any way, how is one to 'carry the message'?"
"First, I would say, be sure that you have a message to carry."
"I thought you just said, Mr. Richmond, that the gospel is the message?" said Mrs. Trembleton.
"It is the material of the message; but you know it must be very differently presented to different people."
"I know; but how can you tell?"
"As I said, be sure that you have a message to carry. Let your heart be full of some thought, or some truth, which you long to tell to another person, or long that another person should know. Then ask the Lord to give you the right word for that person; and ask Him to let His power go along with it."
"Then one's own heart must be full first," said another lady, Mrs. Barth, thoughtfully.
"It should be. And it may be."
"One has so little time to give to these things," said Mrs. Trembleton.
"Shall we serve the Lord with that which costs us nothing?" again said Mr. Richmond. But he did not prolong the conversation after that. He gave out a hymn and dismissed the assembly.
Matilda being quite in the front, was some distance behind her sisters in coming out. As she passed slowly down the aisle, she came near two of her little acquaintances in one of the seats, who were busily talking.
"It would be so nice!" she heard the one say to the other.
"Where shall we do it?"
"There's no place at our house."
"No more there isn't at mine. There are so many people about all over. Where can we go?"
"I'll tell you. Mr. Ulshoeffer has this place nice and warm long before Sunday-School time, on Sundays; let us come here. We could come awhile before the time, you know; and it would be so nice. Nobody would interrupt us. Oh, there's Matilda Englefield—Matilda, won't you come too? Oh, I forgot; you are not one of the Band."
"Yes, I am," said Matilda.
"Why, you didn't rise the other night when we all rose. I looked over at you to see."
"I gave Mr. Richmond my name afterwards."
"Oh, did you! oh, that's good. Now, Matilda, wouldn't you like to come with Mary and me?"
"What are you going to do?"
"Why, Mary said she would like to begin and read the Life of Jesus, you know, to see how He did live; if we are to follow Him, you know; and I said I would like it too; and we're going to do it together. And we're coming here Sundays, before time for Sunday-School, to have a good quiet place where nobody can trouble us. Don't you want to come too, Matilda?"
"Yes. But other people will find it out and come too."
"We'll lock the door; till it is time for the people to come to Sunday-School, you know."
"But I don't believewecan get in, Ailie," said Mary Edwards. "I guess Mr. Ulshoeffer keeps the door locked himself."
"I know he does; but I know Regina Ulshoeffer, and she'll get leave for us and get the key. I know she will. Then we'll come, won't we? Good-night! Bring your Testament, Tilly!"
The little group scattered at the lecture-room door, and Matilda ran after her party. They were far ahead; and when she caught up with them they were deep in eager talk, which was almost altercation. Matilda fell behind and kept out of it and out of hearing of it, till they got home.
"Well!" said Mrs. Candy, as they entered the parlour, "what now? You do not look harmonious, considering. What have you had to-night?"
"An impossible sort of enthusiasm, mamma," said Clarissa, as she drew off her handsome furs.
"Impossible enthusiasm!" repeated Mrs. Candy.
"What has Mr. Richmond been talking about?" asked Mrs. Englefield.
"Why, mamma," said Letitia, "we are all to spend our lives in feeding sick people, and clothing lazy people, and running after the society of wicked people, as far as I can make out; and our money of course goes on the same plan. I advise you to look after Maria and Matilda, for they are just wise enough to think it's all right; and they will be carrying it into practice before you know where you are."
"It is not so at all!" began Maria, indignantly. "It is nothing like that, mamma. You know Mr. Richmond better."
"I think I know you better, too. Look where your study books were thrown down to-day when you came from school. Take them away, before you do anything else or say anything more."
Maria obeyed with a gloomy face.
"Do you approve of Mr. Richmond, Aunt Marianne?" Clarissa asked. "If so, I will say no more; but I was astonished to-night. I thought he was a man of sense."
"Heisa man of sense," said Mrs. Englefield; "but I always thought he carried his notions rather far."
"Why, aunt, he would make missionaries and colporteurs and sisters of charity of us all. Sisters of charity are a magnificent institution, of course; but what would become of the world if we wereallsisters of charity? And the idea! that everybody is to spend his whole time and all his means in looking up vagrants and nursing fever cases! I never heard anything like it in my life. That, and doing the work of travelling Methodists!"
"I wonder what the ministry is good for," said Mrs. Candy, "if everybody is to do the same work."
"I do not understand it," said Mrs. Englefield. "I was not brought up to these extreme theories myself; and I do not intend that my children shall be."
"But, mamma," said Maria, re-entering, "Mr. Richmond does not go into extreme theories."
"Did you eat an apple after dinner?" said her mother.
"Yes, ma'am."
"You ate it up here, instead of in the dining-room?"
"Why, mamma, you know we often——"
"Answer me. You ate it up here?"
"Yes."
"What did you do with the core and the peel?"
"Mamma, I—you know I had no knife——"
"What did you do with it?"
No answer, except that Maria's cheeks grew bright.
"You know what you did with it, I suppose. Now bring it to me, Maria."
Colouring angrily as well as confusedly, Maria went to the mantelpiece where stood two little china vases, and took down one of them.
"Carry it to your Aunt Candy," said her mother. "Look at it, Erminia. Now bring it here. Take this vase away, and empty it, and wash it, and put it in its place again; and never use it to put apple peels in, as long as you live."
Maria burst into tears and went away with the vase.
"Just a little careless," said her aunt.
"Heedless—always was," said her mother. "Now Matilda is not so; and Anne and Letitia were neither of them so. It is a mystery to me, what makes one child so different from another child?"
"Matilda is a little piece of thoughtfulness," said her aunt, drawing the child to her side and kissing her. "Don't you think a little too much, Tilly?"
Matilda wondered whether her aunt thought quite enough.
"Now, Maria," Mrs. Englefield went on as her other daughter came in, "are you purposing to enter into all Mr. Richmond's plans that Clarissa has been talking about?"
"Yes, ma'am, of course," Maria said.
"Well, I want you to take notice, that I expect in the first place that all your home and school duties shall be perfectly performed. Religion, if it is good for anything, makes people do their duties. Your lessons must be perfect; your drawers kept in order; your clothes mended; you must be punctual at school and orderly at home; do you hear? And if all this is not done, I shall take all your pretended religion for nothing but a sham, and shall pay no respect to it at all. Now go to bed and act religion for a month before I hear you talk another word about it."
Maria went silently up-stairs, accompanied by her little sister; but once in their room, she broke out—
"Mamma is real cross to-night! It is just Clarissa's doing."
"I'll tell you what it is, Maria," her sister said; "she is not cross; she is worried. I know she is worried."
"About Mr. Richmond?" said Maria.
"I don't know about what. No, I guess she was worried before we came back."
"She was cross anyhow!" said Maria. "How can one do everythingperfectly?"
"But that is just what Mr. Richmond said," Matilda urged gently.
"What?"
"That we should be light-bearers, you know. That is the way to be a light-bearer; to do everything perfectly."
"Well, you may, if you can," said Maria. "I can't."