"I think I need not tell you thatthatis a very vulgar expression," said Mrs. Candy, with a lofty air; while Clarissa's shoulders gave a little shrug, as much as to say her mother was wasting time. "Don't you know any better, Maria?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Then I hope you will speak properly next time."
"One gets so tired of speaking properly!" said Maria.
"You?" said Clarissa, with a gentle intonation.
"I don't care!" said Maria, desperately. "People are as they are brought up. My mother don't care for such fidgety notions. I speak to please her, and that is enough."
"No, Maria, it is not enough," resumed Mrs. Candy. "Your mother loves you, and so she is willing to overlook little things in you that shecanoverlook because you are her child; but when you are grown up, you would wish to be liked by other nice people, wouldn't you? people of education, and taste, and elegant habits; and they do not like to have anything to do with people who 'poke their noses' into things, or who say that they do."
"I'll keep in the kitchen then," said Maria, hastily.
The breakfast may be said to have ended here; for though a few more mouthfuls were eaten, no more words were said. Mrs. Candy and her daughter left the room and went up-stairs. Maria and Matilda began the work of clearing the table.
"Ain't she too much!" Maria exclaimed.
"But, Maria," said her little sister, "I wish youwouldn'tsay such things."
"If I am going to be a kitchen maid," said Maria, "I may as well talk kitchen maid."
"Oh, I don't think so, Maria!"
"I don't care!" said Maria. "I would rather vex aunt Candy than not; and shewasvexed this morning. She kept it in pretty well; but she was vexed."
"But, Maria, that isn't right, is it?"
"Nothing is right," said Maria; "and nothing is going to be, I guess, while they are here."
"Then think, what would mamma do if they went away?"
"I wish I could go away, then!" said Maria, beginning to cry. "I can't bear to live so! 'Why do you do so,' and 'why do you doso;' and Clarissa sitting by with that little smile on her mouth, and lifting up her eyes to look at you—it just makes memad. There! It is a pity Aunt Candy wasn't here to be shocked at American children."
"But, Maria," said Matilda with her eyes swimming too, "you know the Lord Jesus has given us this work."
"No, I don't!" said Maria; "and what if He did?"
"Why, then, it would please Him—you know, Maria, it would please Him—to have us do it just nicely and beautifully, and not like kitchen maids, but like His children. You know we said we were ready to do any work that he would give us."
"I didn't," said Maria, half crying, half pouting. "I didn't promise to dothissort of thing."
"But we mustn't choose," said Matilda.
"But wedidchoose," said Maria. "I said what I would do, and other people said what they would do; and nobody said anything about washing dishes and peeling potatoes. We were not talking ofthat."
"The covenant says, 'we stand ready to do His will.' Don't you know?"
"I believe you know that covenant by heart," said Maria. "I don't. And I don't care. Matilda, I wish you would run down cellar with the butter, and the cream, and the bread—will you?"
Matilda did not run, but she made journey after journey down the cellar stairs, with feet that grew weary; and then she dried the china while her sister washed it. Then they brushed up the kitchen and made up the fires. Then Maria seated herself on the kitchen table and looked at Matilda.
"I'm tired now, Tilly."
"So am I."
"Is there anything else to be done?"
"Why, there is the dinner, Maria."
"It isn't near dinner time. It is only ten o'clock."
"How long will it take the potatoes to boil?"
"Oh, not long. It is not time to put them on for a great while."
"But they are not ready, are they?"
"No."
"And what else, Maria?"
Here came a call from the stair head. Maria went to the foot of the stairs to hear what the business was, and came back with her mood nowise sweetened; to judge by the way she went about; filled an iron pot with water and set it on the stove, and dashed things round generally. Matilda looked on without saying a word.
"I've got my day's work cut out for me now," said Maria at last. "There's that leg of mutton to boil, and turnips to be mashed; besides the potatoes. And the turnips have got to be peeled. Come and help me, Tilly, or I shall never get through. Won't you?"
Now Matilda had her own notions about things she liked and things she did not like to do; and one of the things she did not like to do was to roughen or soil her hands. To put her little hands into the pan of water, and handle and pare the coarse roots with the soil hanging to them, was very distasteful to her nicety. She looked a little dismayed. But there were the roots all to be pared and washed, and Maria would have her hands full; and was not this also work given to Matilda to do? At any rate, she felt that she could not refuse without losing influence over Maria, and that she could not afford. So Matilda's hands and her knife went into the pan. She thought it was very disagreeable, but she did it. After the potatoes and turnips were ready for the pot, Maria demanded her help about other things; she must clean the knives, and set the table, and prepare the celery and rub the apples; while Maria kept up the fire, and attended to the cookery. Matilda did one thing after another; her weary little feet travelled out and in, from one room to the other room, and got things in order for dinner in both places.
It was a pretty satisfactory dinner, on the whole. The mutton was well cooked and the vegetables were not bad, Mrs. Candy said; but Matilda thought with dismay of the after dinner dishes. However, dinner gives courage sometimes; and both she and Maria were stronger-hearted when they rose from table than when they had sat down. Dishes, and pots, and kettles, and knives, and endless details beside, were in course of time got rid of; and then Matilda put on her hat and cloak, and set forth on an errand she had been meditating.
It was a soft pleasant day late in March. The snow had all gone for the present. Doubtless it might come back again; no one could tell; in Shadywalk snow was not an unknown visitor even in April; but for the present no such reminder of winter was anywhere to be seen. The air was still and gentle; even the brown tree stems looked softer and less bare than a few weeks ago, though no bursting buds yet were there to make any real change. The note of a bird might be heard now and then; Matilda had twice seen the glorious colour of a blue bird's wings as they spread themselves in the light. It was quite refreshing to get out of the house and the kitchen work, and smell the fresh, pure air, and see the sky, and feel that all the world was not between four walls anywhere. Matilda went softly along, enjoying. At the corner she turned, and walked up Butternut street—so called, probably, in honour of some former tree of that family, for not a shoot of one was known in the street now. On and on she went till her church was passed, and then turned down the little lane which led to the parsonage. The snow all gone, it was looking pretty here. On one side the old church, the new lecture-room on the other, and between them the avenue of elms, arching their branches over the way and making a vista, at the end of which was the brown door of the parsonage. Always that was a pleasant view to Matilda, for she associated the brown door with a great many things; however, this day she did not seek the old knocker which hung temptingly overhead, but sheered off and went round to the back of the house; and there entered at once, and without knocking, upon Miss Redwood's premises. They were in order; nobody ever saw the parsonage kitchen otherwise; and Miss Redwood was sitting in front of the stove, knitting.
"Well, if there ain't Tilly Englefield!" was her salutation.
"May I come in, Miss Redwood?—if you are not busy."
"Suppos'n Iwasbusy, I guess you wouldn't do me no harm, child. Come right in and sit down, and tell me how's all goin' on at your house. How's your mother, fust thing?"
"Aunt Candy says she's not any better."
"What does your mother say herself?"
"I have not seen her to-day. Aunt Candy says she is nervous; and she wants me not to go into her room."
"Who wants you not to go in? Not your mother?"
"No; Aunt Candy."
"I thought so. Well; how do you get along without your sisters, eh? Have you got a girl, or are you goin' to do without?"
"We are going to do without."
"I don't see how you kin, with your mother sick and wantin' somebody to tend her."
"Maria and I do what's to be done. Mamma doesn't want us to get a girl."
"Maria and you!" said Miss Redwood, straightening up. "I want to know! You and Maria. Why, I didn't reckon Maria was a hand at them kind o' things. What can she do, eh? I want to know! Things is curious in this world."
"Maria can do a good deal," said Matilda.
"And you can, too, can't ye?" said Miss Redwood, with a benevolent smile at her little visitor, which meant all love and no criticism.
"I wish I knew how to do more," said Matilda. "Icould, if I knew how. That's what I came to ask you, Miss Redwood; won't you tell me?"
"Tell you anything on arth," said the housekeeper. "What do you want to know, child?"
"I don't know," said Matilda, knitting her brow. "I want to know how tomanage."
Miss Redwood's lips twitched, and her knitting needles flew.
"So there ain't no one but you to manage?" she said, at length.
"Aunt Candy tells what is to be for breakfast and dinner. But I want to know how todothings. What can one do with cold beefsteak, Miss Redwood?"
"'Tain't good for much," said the housekeeper. "Have you got some on hand?"
"No. We had, though."
"And whatdidyou do with it?"
"Maria and I put it in the oven to warm; and it spoiled the dish, and the meat was all dried up; and then I thought I would come and ask you. And we tried to fry some potatoes this morning, and we didn't know how, I think. They were not good."
"And so your breakfast all fell through; and there was a muss, I expect?"
"No; we had eggs; nobody knew anything about the beefsteak and the dish. But I want to know how to do."
"What ailed your potatoes?"
"They were too hard and too brown."
"I shouldn't wonder! I declare, I 'most think I've got into the middle of a fairy story somewhere. Did you ever hear about Cinderella, Tilly, and her little glass slipper?"
"Oh yes."
"Some people's chariots and horses will find themselves turned into pun'kins some day; that is whatIbelieve."
"But about the potatoes?" said Matilda, who could not catch the connection of this speech.
"Well; she let 'em be in too long. That was the trouble. If you want to have things right, you must take 'em out when they are done, honey."
"But how can we tell when they are done?"
"Why, you know by just lookin at 'em. There ain't no great trouble about it; anyhow, there ain't about potatoes. You just put some fat in a pan, and chop up your potatoes, and when the fat is hot clap 'em in, and let 'em frizzle round a spell; and then when they're done you take 'em up. Did you sprinkle salt in?"
"No."
"You must mind and sprinkle salt in, while they're in the pan; without that they'll taste kind o' flat."
"Aunt Erminia don't like them chopped up. She wants them cut in thin slices and browned on both sides."
"Laws a massy! why don't she do 'em so, then? what hinders her?" said the housekeeper, looking at Matilda. "I thought she was one o' them kind o' folks as don't know nothing handy. Why don't she do her own potatoes, and as brown as she likes, Tilly?"
"Mamma wants us to take care of things, Miss Redwood."
"Won't let your aunt learn you, nother?" said Miss Redwood, sticking one end of her knitting-needle behind her ear, and slowly scratching with it, while she looked at Matilda.
"Aunt Candy does not like to do anything in the kitchen; and I would rather you would teach me, Miss Redwood—if you would."
"And can you learn Maria?"
"Oh yes."
"Well, come along; what do you want to know next?"
"I wish you'd teach me some time how to make gingerbread. And pies."
The housekeeper glanced at the clock, and then bade Matilda take oft' her things.
"Now?" said Matilda, hesitating.
"You can't do nothing any time but now," said Miss Redwood, as she put away her work in its basket. "You canthinkof doing it; but if you ever come to doing it, you will find it isnow."
"But is it convenient?"
"La, child, I don't know what people mean by convenient. You look at it one way, and there is nothing convenient; and you look at it another way, and there is nothing but what is. Hang your things over that chair; and I'll put an apron on you."
"But which way does it look this afternoon, Miss Redwood?"
The housekeeper laughed, and kissed Tilly, whom she was arraying in a great check apron, big enough to cover her.
"It is just how you choose to take it," she said. "I declare I'm sorry for the folks as is tied to convenience; they don't get the right good of their life. Why, honey, what isn't my convenience is somebody else's convenience, maybe. I want it to be sunshine very often, so as I kin dry my clothes, when the farmers want it to be rain to make their corn and cabbages grow. It is sure to be convenient for somebody."
"But I want it to be convenient for you, this afternoon," said Matilda, wistfully.
"Well, 'tis," said the housekeeper. "There—wash your hands in that bowl, dear; and here's a clean towel for you. A body as wants to have things convenient, had better not be a minister's housekeeper. No, the place is nice enough," she went on, as she saw Matilda's eye glance around the kitchen; "'tain't that; but I always think convenient means having your own way; andthatnobody need expect to do at the parsonage. Just so sure as I make pot pie, Mr. Richmond'll hev to go to a funeral, and it's spiled or lost, for he's no time to eat it; and I never cleaned up that hall and steps yet, but an army of boots and shoes came tramping over it out of the dirt; when if itwantscleaning, it'll get leave to be without a foot crossing it all the afternoon. And if it's bakin' day, I have visitors, and have to run between them and the oven, till I don't know which end is the parlour; and that's the way, Tilly; and I don't know no better way but to conclude that somebody else's convenience is yourn—and then you'll live in clover. The minister had to preach to me a good while before I could see it, though. Now, honey, sift your flour;—here it is. Kin you do it?"
Matilda essayed to do it, and the housekeeper looked on.
"The damper is turned," she said; "we'll have the oven hot by the time the cake is ready. Now, dear, what's going into it?"
"Will that be enough?" said Matilda, lifting her floury hand out of the pan.
"Iwant a piece," said the housekeeper; "so there had better go another bowlful. And the minister—helikes a bite of hot gingerbread, when he can get it. So shake it in, dear. That will do. Now, what are you going to put in it, Tilly, besides flour?"
"Why,Idon't know," said Matilda.
"Well, guess. What do you think goes into gingerbread?"
"Molasses?"
"Yes; but that goes one of the last things. Ain't you going to put no shortening in?"
"Shortening? what is that?" said Matilda.
"Well, it's whatever you've got. Butter'll do, if it's nice and sweet—like this is—or sweet drippings'll do, or a little sweet lard, maybe. We'll take the butter to-day, for this is going to do you and me credit. Now think—what else? Put the butter right there, in the middle, and rub it into the flour with the flat of your hand, so. Rub hard, dear; get the butter all in the flour, so you can't see it. What is to go in next?"
"Spice? I think mamma puts spice."
"If you like it. What spice will you choose?"
"I don't know, Miss Redwood."
"Well, it'd be queer gingerbread without ginger, wouldn't it?"
"Oh yes. I forgot the ginger, to be sure. How much?"
"That's 'cordin' as you like it.Thatwon't hardly taste, dear; 'tain't just like red pepper; take a good cupful. Now just a little bit of cloves!"
"And cinnamon?"
"It'll be spice gingerbread, sure enough," said the housekeeper. "And salt, Tilly."
"Salt? Must salt go in?" said Matilda, who had got very eager now in her work.
"Salt's univarsal," said Miss Redwood. "'Cept sweetmeats, it goes into everything. That's what makes all the rest good. I never could see what was the use o' salt, till one day the minister, he preached a sermon on 'Ye are the salt of the earth,' and ever since that it seems to kind o' put me in mind. And then I asked Mr. Richmond ifeverythingmeant something."
"But what does that mean, that you said?" said Matilda. "Good people don't make the rest of the world good."
"They give all the taste there is to it, though," said the housekeeper. "And I asked that very question myself of the minister; and what do you think he told me."
"What?"
"He said it was because the salt warn't of as good quality as it had ought to be. Andthatmakes me think, too. But la! look at your gingerbread standing still. Now see, dear here's a bowl o' buttermilk for you; it's as rich as cream, a'most; and I take and put in a spoonful of—you know what this is?"
"Salaeratus?"
"That's it."
"We use soda at our house."
"Salaeratus is good enough for me," said Miss Redwood; "and I know what it'll do; so I'm never put out in my calculations. Now when it foams up—see,—now mix your cake, dear, as quick as you like. Stop—wait—let's get the molasses in. Now, go on. I declare, having two pair o' hands kind o' puts one out. Stir it up; don't be afraid."
Matilda was not afraid, and was very much in earnest. The gingerbread was quickly mixed, and for a few minutes there was busy work, buttering the pans and putting the mixture in them, and setting the pans in the oven. Then Matilda washed her hands; the housekeeper put the flour and spices away; and the two sat down to watch the baking.
"It'll be good," said the housekeeper.
"I hope it will," said Matilda.
"I know 'twill," said Miss Redwood. "You do your part right; and these sort o' things—flour, and butter, and meat, and potatoes, and that—don't never disapint you. That's one thing that is satisfactory in this world."
"But mamma has her cake spoiled in the oven sometimes."
"'Twarn't the oven's fault," said Miss Redwood. "Did ye think it was? Ovens don't do that for me, never."
"But sometimes the oven was too hot," said Matilda; "and other times she said it was not hot enough."
"Of course!" said the housekeeper; "and then again other times she forgot to look at it, maybe, and left her cake in too long. The cake couldn't knock at the door of the oven to be let out; that'd be too much to ask. Now look at yourn, dear."
Matilda opened the oven door and shut it again.
"What's the appearance of it?"
"It is coming up beautifully. But it isn't up in the middle yet."
"The fire's just right," said the housekeeper.
"But how can youtell, Miss Redwood?" said Matilda, standing by the stove with a most careful set of wrinkles on her little brow.
"Tell?" said the housekeeper; "just as you tell anything else; after you've seen it fifty times, you know."
Matilda began a painful calculation of how often she could make something to bake, and how long it would be till fifty times had made her wise in the matter; when an inner door opened, and the minister himself came upon the scene. Matilda coloured, and looked a little abashed; the housekeeper smiled.
"I am very glad to see you here, Tilly," Mr. Richmond said, heartily. "What are you and Miss Redwood doing here?"
"We are getting ready for the business of life," said the housekeeper. "The minister knows there are different ways of doin' that."
"Just what way are you taking now?" said Mr. Richmond, laughing. "It seems to me, you think the business of life is eating—if I may judge by the smell of the preparation."
"It is time you looked at your cake, Tilly," said Miss Redwood; and she did not offer to help her; so, blushing more and more, Matilda was obliged to open the oven door again, and show that she was acting baker. The eyes of the two older persons met in a way that was pleasant to see.
"What's here, Tilly?" said the minister, coming nearer and stooping to look in himself.
"Miss Redwood has been teaching me how to make gingerbread. O Miss Redwood, it is beginning to get brown at the end."
"Turn the pans round then. It ain't done yet."
"No, it isn't done, for it is not quite up in the middle. There is a sort of hollow place."
"Shut up your oven, child, and it will be all right in a few minutes."
"Then I think this is the night when you are going to stay and take tea with me," said Mr. Richmond. "I promised you a roast apple, I remember. Are there any more apples that will do for roasting, Miss Redwood?"
"O Mr. Richmond, I do not care for the apple!" Matilda cried.
"But if I don't have it, you will stay and take tea with me?"
Matilda looked wistful, and hesitated. Her mother would not miss her; but could Maria get the tea without her?—
"And I dare say you want to talk to me about something; isn't it so?" the minister continued.
"Yes, Mr. Richmond; I do."
"That settles it. She will stay, Miss Redwood. I shall have some gingerbread, I hope. And when you are ready, Tilly, you can come to me in my room."
The minister quitted the kitchen in good time, for now the cakes were almost done and needed care. A little watchful waiting, and then the plumped up, brown, glossy loaves of gingerbread said to even an inexperienced eye that it was time for them to come out of the oven. Miss Redwood showed Matilda how to arrange them on a sieve, where they would not get steamy and moist; and Matilda's eye surveyed them there with very great satisfaction.
"That's as nice as if I had made it myself," said the housekeeper. "Now don't you want to get the minister's tea?"
"What shall I do, Miss Redwood?"
"I thought maybe you'd like to learn how to manage something else. He's had no dinner to-day—to speak of; and if eatin' ain't the business of life—which it ain't, I guess, with him—yet stoppin' eatin' would stop business, he'd find; and I'm goin' to frizzle some beef for his supper, and put an egg in. Now I'll cut the beef, and you can stir it, if you like."
Matilda liked very much. She watched the careful shaving of the beef in paper-like fragments; then at the housekeeper's direction she put some butter in a pan on the fire, and when it was hot threw the beef in and stirred it back and forward with a knife, so as not to let it burn, and so as to bring all the shavings of beef in contact with the hot pan bottom, and into the influence of the boiling butter. At the moment of its being done, the housekeeper broke an egg or two into the pan; and then in another moment bade Matilda take it from the fire and turn it out. Meanwhile Miss Redwood had cut bread and made the tea.
"Now you can go and call the minister," she said.
Matilda thought she was having the rarest of pleasant times, as she crossed the little dining-room and the square yard of hall that came next, and went into the study. Fire Was burning in the wide chimney there as usual; the room was very sweet and still; Mr Richmond sat before the fire with a book.
"I thought you were coming to talk to me, Tilly?" he said, stretching out his hand to draw her up to him.
"Miss Redwood was showing me how to do things, Mr. Richmond."
"Then youdowant to talk to me?"
"Oh yes, sir. But, Mr. Richmond, tea is ready."
"We'll eat first then, and talk afterward. What is the talk to be about, Tilly? just to give me an idea."
"It is about—I do not know what is right about something, Mr. Richmond. I do not know what I ought to do."
"Have you looked in the Bible to find out?"
"No, sir. I didn't know where to look, Mr. Richmond."
"Have you prayed about it?"
Matilda hesitated, but finally said again, "No."
"That is another thing you can always do. The Lord understands your difficulties better than any one else can, and knows just what answer to give you."
"But—an answer? will He give it always?"
"Always provided you are perfectly willing to take it, whatever it may be; and provided you do your part."
"What is my part?"
"If I sent you to find your way along a road you did not know, where there were guide posts set up; what would be your part to do?"
"To mind the guide posts?"
"Yes, and go on as they bade you. That is not to prevent your asking somebody you meet on the road, if you are going right? Now Miss Redwood has rung her bell, and you and I must obey it."
"But, what are the guide posts, Mr. Richmond?"
"We will see about that after tea. Come."
Matilda gave one wondering thought to the question how Maria and tea would get along without her at home; and then she let all that go, and resolved to enjoy the present while she had it. Certainly it was very pleasant to take tea with Mr. Richmond. He was so very kind, and attentive to her wants; and so amusing in his talk; and the new gingerbread looked so very handsome, piled up in the cake basket; and Miss Redwood was such a variety after Mrs. Candy. Matilda let care go. And when it came to eating the gingerbread, it was found to be excellent. Mr. Richmond said he wished she would come often and make some for him.
"Do you know there is a meeting of the Band this evening?"
"I had forgotten about it, Mr. Richmond; I have been so busy."
"It is lucky you came to take tea with me, then," said he. "Perhaps you would have forgotten it altogether. What is Maria doing?"
"She is busy at home, Mr. Richmond."
"I am sorry for that. To-night is the night for questions; I am prepared to receive questions from everybody. Have you got yours ready?"
"About Band work, Mr. Richmond?"
"Yes, about Band work. Though you know that is only another name for the Lord's work, whatever it may be that He gives us to do. Now we will go to my study and attend to the business we were talking about."
So they left Miss Redwood to her tea-table; and the minister and his little guest found themselves alone again.
"Now, Tilly, what is it?" he said, as he shut the door.
"Mr. Richmond," said Matilda, anxiously, "I want to know if I must mind what Aunt Erminia says?"
"Mrs. Candy?" said Mr. Richmond, looking surprised.
"Yes, sir."
"The question is, whether you must obey her?"
"Yes, sir."
"I should say, if you doubt about any of her commands, you had better ask your mother, Tilly."
"But I cannot see my mother, Mr. Richmond; that is one of the things. Mamma is sick, and aunt Candy has forbidden me to go into her room. Must I stay out?"
"Is your mother so ill?"
"No, sir, I do not think she is; I don't know; but Aunt Candy says she is nervous; and I must not go in there without leave." And Matilda raised appealing eyes to the minister.
"That is hard, Tilly. I am very sorry to hear it. But I am of opinion that the authority of nurses must not be disputed. I think if Mrs. Candy says stay out, you had better stay out."
"And everything else?" said Matilda. "Must I mind what she says in everything else?"
"Are you under her orders, Matilda?"
"That is what I want to know, Mr. Richmond. She says so. She told me not to go out to church last Sunday night; and all the others were going, and I went too; and she scolded about it and said I must mind her. Must I? in everything? I can't ask mamma."
Mr. Richmond turned a paper-weight over and over two or three times without speaking.
"You know what the fifth commandment is, Tilly."
"Yes, Mr. Richmond. But she is not my mother."
"Don't you think she is in your mother's place just now? Would not your mother wish that your obedience should be given to your aunt for the present?"
Matilda looked grave, not to say gloomy.
"I can tell you what will make it easy," said Mr. Richmond. "Do it for the sake of the Lord Jesus. He set us an example of obedience to all lawful authorities; He has commanded us to live in peace with everybody as far as we possibly can; and to submit ourselves to one another in the fear of God. Besides that, I must think, Tilly, the command to obey our parents means also that we should obey whoever happens to stand in our parents' place to us. Will it not make it easy to obey your aunt, if you think that you are doing it to please God?"
"Yes, Mr. Richmond," Matilda said, thoughtfully.
"I always feel that God's command sweetens anything," the minister went on. "Do you feel so?"
"I think I do," the little girl answered.
"So if you stay at home for Mrs. Candy's command, you may reflect that it is for Jesus' sake; and that will please Him a great deal better than your going to church to please yourself."
"Yes, Mr. Richmond," Matilda said, cheerfully.
"Was that all you had to talk to me about?"
"Yes, sir; all except about Band work."
"We will talk about that in the meeting. If you have a question to ask, write it here; and I will take it in and answer it."
He gave Matilda paper and pen, and himself put on his overcoat. Then taking her little slip of a question, the two went together into the lecture-room.
Three was a good little gathering of the workers, many of whom were quite young persons. Among them Matilda was not a little surprised to see Maria. But she warily sheered off from comments and questions, and took a seat in another part of the room.
"We are here for a good talk to-night," said the minister, after they had sung and prayed. "I stand ready to meet difficulties and answer questions. All who have any more little notes to lay on the desk, please bring or send them up, or ask their questions by word of mouth. I will take the first of these that comes to hand."
Mr. Richmond unfolded a paper and read it over to himself, in the midst of a hush of expectation. Then he read it aloud.
"If a member of the Relief Committee visits a sick person in want of help, and finds another member of some other committee giving the help and doing the work of the Relief Committee, which of them should take care of the case?"
"It is almost as puzzling," said Mr. Richmond, "as that other question, what husband the woman should have in the other world who had had seven in this. But as we are not just like the angels in heaven yet, I should say in this and similar cases, that the one who first found and undertook the case should continue her care—or his care—if he or she be so minded. The old rule of 'first come, first served,' is a good one, I think. The Relief Committee has no monopoly of the joy of helping others. Let us see what comes next.
"'There are four people, I know, who go to read the Bible to one blind person—and I know of at least two who are sick and unable to read, that nobody goes to.'
"Want of system," said Mr. Richmond, looking up. "The head of the Bible-reading Committee should be told of these facts."
"She has been told," said a lady in the company.
"Then doubtless the irregularity will be set to rights."
"No, it is not so certain; for the blind person lives where it is easy to attend her; and the sick people are in Lilac Lane—out of the way, and in a disagreeable place."
"Does the head of the Bible-reading Committee decline these cases, having nobody that she can send to them?"
"She says she does not know whom to send."
"I will thank you for the names of those two cases by and by, Mrs. Norris; I think I can get them supplied. The question of theory I will handle presently, before we separate."
"Here is another request," said Mr. Richmond, who knew Matilda's handwriting,—"from a dear child, who asks to know 'what we shall do, when people will not hear the message we carry?' Why, try again. Go and tell them again; and never mind rebuffs if you get them. People did not listen to our Master; it is no matter of wonder if they refuse to hear us. But He did not stop His labours for that; neither must we. 'Let us not be weary in well-doing; for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not.' I give her that for her watchword;—'If we faint not, remember.
"The next question in my hand is, 'what we are to do about welcoming strangers?' The writer states, that six new scholars have lately come to the school, and, to her certain knowledge, only two of them have received any welcome.
"Well," said Mr. Richmond, thoughtfully, "I must come to the words I had chosen to talk to you about. They answer a great many things. You all remember a verse in the Epistle to the Ephesians which speaks of 'redeeming the time, because the days are evil.'
"I dare say it has puzzled some of you, as it used once to puzzle me. How are we to 'redeem the time'? Another translation of the passage will perhaps be clearer and help us to understand. 'Buying' up opportunities.' The words are so rendered by a late great authority. I don't know but you will at first think it just as hard to comprehend. How are we to 'buy up opportunities'?"
"I am sure I don't know," said Mrs. Swan, Ailie's mother. "I always thought opportunities were given."
"So they are. But the privilege of using them, we often must buy."
"I don't see how."
"Let us come to facts, Mrs. Swan. Here are four opportunities in the school, in the shape of new members added to it. How comes it these opportunities have not been used? There are two other grand opportunities in Lilac Lane."
"Are we to buy them?" said Mrs. Trembleton.
"I do not see how else the difficulty can be met. They are worth buying. But the next question is, What will you pay?"
There was a long silence, which nobody seemed inclined to break.
"I think you see, my dear friends, what I mean. For welcoming those four strangers, somebody must give up his ease for a moment—must make a little sacrifice of comfort. It will be very little indeed, for these things pay as we go; we get our return promptly. The opportunities in Lilac Lane must be bought, perhaps, with some giving up of time; of pleasure, perhaps; perhaps we must pay some annoyance. It is so with most of our opportunities, dear friends. He who serves God with what costs him nothing, will do very little service, you may depend on it. Christ did not so; who, 'though He was rich, yet for our sakes He became poor, that we through His poverty might be rich.' He 'pleased not Himself.' And we, if we are His servants, must be ready to giveeverything, if need be, even our lives also, to the work He calls us to do. We must buy up opportunities with all our might, paying not only time and money, but love, and patience, and self-denial, and self-abasement, and labour, and pains-taking. We cannot be right servants of God or happy servants, and keep back anything. 'Let a man so account of us, as ministers of Christ, and stewards of the mysteries of God;' and let us see that all the grace He gives us we use to the very uttermost for His glory, in 'works, and love, and service, and faith, and patience, and works.' My dear friends, if we have onlylovein our hearts, love will buy up opportunities as fast as they come; and always have the right money."
Mr. Richmond said no more, but after another hymn and a prayer dismissed the assembly. Maria and Matilda presently found themselves side by side in the street.
"Maria," said the younger one, "don't you think you and I will go and read to those two poor people in the lane?"
"I guess I will!" said Maria, "when I get done being chief cook and bottle-washer to Mrs. Minny Candy."
"But before that, Maria?"
"When shall I go?" said Maria, sharply. "When it is time to get breakfast? or when the potatoes are on for dinner? or when I am taking the orders for tea? Don't be a goose, Matilda, if you can help it."
"We haven't much time," said Matilda, sighing.
"And I am not going to Lilac Lane, if I had it. There are enough other people to do that."
"O Maria!"
"Well, 'O Maria,'—there are."
"But they do not go."
"That's their look out."
"And, Maria, you see what Mr. Richmond thinks about the Dows."
"I don't see any such thing."
"You heard him to-night."
"He didn't say a word about the Dows."
"But about trying again, he did. O Maria, I've thought a great many times of that Dows' house."
"So have I," said Maria; "what fools we were."
"Why?"
"Why, because it was no use."
"Mr. Richmond doesn't think so."
"He's welcome to go and try for himself.Iam not going again."
"What is the matter, Maria?"
"Nothing is the matter."
"But, Maria, ever since you joined the Band, I cannot remember once seeing you 'buy up opportunities.' If you loved Jesus, I think you would."
"I wouldn't preach," said Maria. "That is one thing I wouldn't do. If I was better than my neighbours, I'd let them be the ones to find it out."
Matilda was silent till they reached home.
"Where have you been, Matilda?" said her aunt, opening the parlour door.
"To see Miss Redwood, aunt Candy."
"Ask me, next time, before going anywhere. Here has Maria had everything to do since five hours ago,—all alone."
Matilda shut her lips firmly,—if her head took a more upright set on her shoulders she did not know it,—and went up-stairs after her sister.
"How is mamma, Maria?" she asked, when she got there.
"I don't know. Just the same."
The little girl sighed.
"What is to be for breakfast?"
"Fish balls."
"You do not know how to make them."
"Aunt Erminia told me. But I shall want your help, Tilly, for the fish has to be carefully picked all to pieces; and if we leave a bit as big as a sixpence, there'll be a row."
"But the fish isn't soaked, Maria."
"It is in hot water on the stove now. It will be done by morning."
Matilda sighed again deeply, and knelt down before the table where her Bible was open. "Buying up opportunities" floated through her head; with "works, and love, and service, and faith, and patience, and works"* [*Alford's translation.]—"Christ pleased not Himself"—and the little girl's head went down upon the open page. How much love she must have, to meet all the needs for it! to do all the works, have all the patience, buy up all the opportunities! Tilly's one prayer was that she might be full of love, first to God and then to everybody.
Such prayers are apt to be answered; and the next morning saw her go through all the details of its affairs with a quiet patience and readiness which must have had a deep spring somewhere. She helped Maria in the tedious picking out of the fish; she roasted her cheeks in frying the balls, while her sister was making porridge; she attended to the coffee; and she met her aunt and cousin at breakfast with an unruffled quiet sweetness of temper. It was just the drop of oil needed to keep things going smoothly; for Maria was tired and out of humour, and Mrs. Candy disposed to be ill-pleased with both the girls for their being out at the Band meeting. She did not approve of the whole thing, she said. However, the sunshine scattered the clouds away. And when, after a busy morning and a pretty well got-up dinner, Matilda asked leave to go out and take a walk, she had her reward. Mrs. Candy gave permission.
"Won't you come too, Maria?" she asked, when they went to their own room.
"There's no fun in walking," Maria answered, disconsolately.
"I am going to Lilac Lane."
"I hope you don't think there is any fun inthat."
"But, Maria!——"
"Well, what?"
"I think there is something a great deal better than fun."
"You may have it all then, for me."
"Maria," said her little sister, gently, "I wish you wouldn't mind. Mamma will get well by and by, and this will be all over; and we are getting along so nicely. Aunt Candy was quite pleased with the dinner."
"There's another dinner to get to-morrow," said Maria; "and I don't know what you mean by this being 'all over' when mamma gets well. What difference will her getting well make? She will help, to be sure; but we should have the same things to do—just the same."
Matilda had not reckoned on that, for she looked sober a minute or two.
"Well, Maria," she said then, clearing up, "I don't care. If Jesus has given us this to do, you know, Iliketo do it; because He has given it to us to do."
Maria turned away impatiently.
"Maria," said her little sister, drawing nearer and speaking solemnly, "do you intend to ask Mr. Richmond to baptize you the next time he has the baptismal service?"
"If I do," said Maria, "youneed not trouble yourself about it."
And Matilda thought she had better let the subject and her sister both alone for the present. She had got herself ready, and now taking her Bible she went out. It was but a little way to the corner. There she turned in the opposite direction from the one which would have taken her to church, and crossed the main street. In that direction, farther on, lay the way to Lilac Lane; but at the other corner of the street Matilda found an interruption. Somebody stopped her, whom she knew the next instant to be Norton Laval.
"Why, it is Matilda Englefield!" he said. "You are just the one I want to see."
"Am I?" said Matilda.
"I should think so. Come along; our house lies that way; don't you recollect?"
"Oh, but I am not going that way now," said Matilda.
"Oh yes, but you are! Mamma says contradicting is very rude, but I can't help it sometimes. Can you help it, Matilda?"
"People ought to be contradicted sometimes," Matilda said, with an arch bridling of her head, which, to be sure, the child was quite unconscious of.
"Not I," said Norton. "Come!"
"Oh, but I cannot, Norton. I wish I could. Not this time."
"Where are you going?"
"Up that way."
"Nobody lives up that way."
"Nobody? Just look at the houses."
"Nobody lives in those houses," said Norton.
"Oh, very well; then I am going to see nobody."
"No, Matilda; you are coming to see mamma. And I have something to show you; a new beautiful game, which mamma has got for me; we are going to play it on the lawn, when the grass is in order, by and by; and I want you to come and see it now, and learn how to play. Come, Matilda, I want to show it to you."
Matilda hesitated. It did not seem very easy to get rid of Norton; but what would become of the poor people in Lilac Lane? Would another time do for them? Here was Norton waiting for her; and a little play would be so pleasant. As she stood irresolute, Norton, putting his arm round her affectionately, and applying a little good-humoured force, gave her shoulders without much difficulty the turn he wished them to take. The two began to move down the street towards Norton's home. But as soon as this was done, Matilda began to have qualms about her dress. Norton was in a brown suit that fitted him, fresh and handsome; his cap sat jauntily on his thick, wavy hair; he was nice from head to foot. And Matilda had come out in the home dress she had worn while she and Maria had been washing up the dinner dittoes. Looking down she could see a little wet spot on the skirt now. That would dry. But then her boots were her everyday boots, and they were a little rusty; and she had on her common school hat. The only thing new and bright about her was her Bible under her arm. As her eye fell upon it, so did her companion's eye.
"What book have you got there?" he asked, and then put out his hand to take it. "A Bible! Where were you going with this, Matilda?"
"It is my Bible," said the little girl.
"Yes; but you do not take your Bible out to walk with you, do you, as babies do their dolls?"
"Of course not."
"Then what for, Matilda?"
"Business."
"What sort of business?"
"Why do you want to know, Norton? It was private business."
"I like that," said Norton. "Why do I want to know? Because you are Matilda Englefield, and I like to know all about you."
"You do not know much yet," said Matilda, looking with a pleased look, however, up into her companion's face. It was smiling at her, with a complacent look to match.
"I shan't knowmuchwhen I know all," he said. "How old are you? You can't make much history in ten years."
"No, not much," said Matilda. "But still—it may not be history to other people, but I think it is to one's self."
"What?"
"Oh, one's life, you know."
"But ten years is not a life," said Norton.
"It is, if one hasn't lived any longer."
"I would like my life to be history to other people," said Norton. "Something worth while."
"I wouldn't like other people to know my life, though," said Matilda.
"Then could not help it, if it was something worth while," said Norton.
"Why, yes, Norton; one's life is what one thinks and feels; what nobody knows. Not the things that everybody knows."
"It is what onedoes," said Norton; "and if you do anything worth while, people will know it. I wonder what there will be to tell of you and me fifty years from now?"
"Fifty years! Why, then I should be sixty-one," said Matilda; "and you would be a good deal more than that. But perhaps we shall not live to be so old."
"Yes, we shall," said Norton. "Ishall; and you must, too."
"Why, Norton, we can'tmakeourselves live," said Matilda, in great astonishment at this language.
"We shall live to be old, though," said Norton. "I know it. And I wish there may be something to be said ofme. I don't think women ought to be talked of."
"I do not see what good it would do anybody to be talked of, after he has gone away out of the world," said Matilda. "Except to be talked of in heaven. That would be good."
"In heaven!" said Norton. "Talked of in heaven! Where did you get that?"
"I don't mean that exactly," said Matilda. "But some people will."
"Who?"
"Why, a great many people, Norton. Abraham and Noah, and David, and Daniel, and the woman that put all she had into the Lord's treasury, and the woman that anointed the head of Jesus—the woman who, He said, had done what she could. I would like to havethatsaid of me, if it was Jesus that said it."
Norton took hold of Matilda and gave her a little good-humoured shake. "Stop that!" he said; "and tell me, is that why you are carrying a Bible out here in the streets?"
"Oh, I haven't any use for it here, Norton."
"Then what have you got it here for?"
"Norton, there are some people in the village who are sick, or cannot read; and I was going to read to them."
"Where are they?"
"In Lilac Lane."
"Where is that?"
"You go up past the corner a good way, and just by Mr. Barth's foundry you turn down a few steps, and turn again at the baker's. Then, a little way further on, you strike into the lane."
"That's it, is it? I know. But do you know what sort of people live up that way?"
"Yes."
"Well, there's another thing youdon'tknow, and that's the mud. You'd never have got out again, if you had gone to Lilac Lane to-day. It is three feet deep; and it weighs twenty pounds a foot. After you set your shoe in it, you want a windlass to get it out again."
"What is a windlass?" Matilda asked.
"Don't you know? Well, youarea girl; but you are a brick. I'll teach you about a windlass, and lots of things."
"I shouldn't think you would want to teach me,becauseI am a girl," said Matilda.
They had reached the iron gate of Mrs. Laval's domain, walking fast as they had talked; and in answer to Matilda's last remark, Norton opened the gate for her, and took off his cap with an air as he held it for her to pass in. Matilda looked, smiled, and stepped past him.
"You are not like any boy I ever saw," she remarked, when he had recovered his cap and his place beside her.
"I hope you like me better than any one you ever saw?"
"Yes," said Matilda, "I do."
The boy's answer was to do what most boys are too shy or too proud for. He put his arms round Matilda and gave her a hearty kiss. Matilda was greatly surprised, and bridled a little, as if she thought Norton had taken a liberty; but on the whole seemed to recognise the fact that they were very good friends, and took this as a seal of it. Norton led her into the house, got his croquet box, and brought her and it out again to the little lawn before the door. Nobody else was visible. The day was still, dry, and sunny, and though the grass was hardly green yet and not shaven nor rolled nor anything that a croquet lawn ought to be, still it would do, as Norton said, to look at. Matilda stood by and listened intently, while he planted his hoops and showed his mallets, and explained to her the initial mysteries of the game. They even tried how it would go; and there was no doubt of one thing, the time went almost as fast as the croquet balls.
"I must run home, Norton," Matilda said at last.
"Why? I don't think so."
"I know I must."
"Well, do you like it?" He meant the game.
"Oh, it's delightful!" was Matilda's honest exclamation. Norton pushed back his cap and looked at her, pleased on his part. It came into Matilda's head that she ought to tell him something. Their two faces had grown to be so friendly to each other.
"Norton," she said, gravely, "I want you to know something about me."
"Yes," said Norton. "I want to know it."
"You don't know what it is."
"That's the very thing. Iwantto know it."
"Norton, did you ever see anybody baptized?"
"Babies," said Norton, after a moment's recollection.
"Well, if you would like to see me baptized, come to our church Sunday after next."
"You?" said Norton. "Haven't you been baptized?"
"Not yet."
"I thought everybody was. Then if you have not been yet, why do you? Whose notion is that?"
"It is mine."
"Yournotion?" said Norton, examining her. "What do you mean by that, Matilda?"
"I mean, I want to be baptized; and Mr. Richmond is going to do it for me."
"What's it for? what's the use? I wouldn't if I were you."
"It is joining the church. Don't you understand, Norton?"
"Not a bit. That is something I never did understand. Do you understand it?"
"Why, yes, certainly."
"Let's hear, then," said Norton, putting up his croquet balls.
"Mr. Richmond has explained it so much, you know, I couldn't help but understand."
"Oh, it's Mr. Richmond, is it?"
"No; it's the Bible."
"Let's hear, then," said Norton. "Go on."
Matilda hesitated. She found a difficulty in saying all her mind to him; she did not know whether it was best; and with that she had a suspicion that perhaps she ought to do it. She glanced at him, and looked away, and glanced again; and tried to make up her mind. Norton was busy putting up his croquet hoops and mallets; but his face looked so energetic and wide awake, and his eye was so quick and strong, that she was half afraid to say something that might bring an expression of doubt or ridicule upon it. Then Norton looked up at her again, a keen look enough, but so full of pleasure in her that Matilda's doubts were resolved. He would not be unkind; she would venture it.
"I want you to know about me, Norton," she began again.
"Well," said Norton, "so do I; but it seems difficult, somehow."
"You do not think that, for you are laughing."
Norton gave her another look, laughing rather more; and then he came and stood close beside her.
"What is it, Matilda?" he asked.
"I don't want you to think that I am good," she said, looking up earnestly and timidly, "for I am not; but I want to be; and being baptized is a sign of belonging to the Lord Jesus, so I want to be baptized."
"It isn't a sign of anything good," said Norton. "Lots of people are baptized, that aren't anything else, I know. Lots of them, Matilda. That don't change them."
"No, that don't change them, Norton; but when theyarechanged, then the Bible says they must be baptized."
"What for?"
"It is just telling everybody what they believe, and what they are. It's asign."
"Then when you are baptized, as you mean to be, that will be telling everybody whatyoubelieve and what you are?"
"Yes."
"It would not tell me," said Norton, "be-cause I should not understand the sign. I wish you would tell me now in words, Matilda."
"I don't know if I can, but I'll try. You know water makes things clean, Norton?"
"Sometimes."
"Well, if it is used it does," said Matilda. "The water is a sign that I believe the Lord Jesus will take away my sins, and make me clean and good, if I trust Him; that He will wash my heart, and that He has begun to do it. And it will be a sign that I am His servant, because that is what He has commanded His servants."
"What?"
"That; to be baptized, and join the church."
"Matilda, a great many people are baptized, and keep all their sins just the same."
"Oh, but those are make-believe people."
"No, they are not; they are real people."
"I mean, they are make-believe Christians."
"How do you know but you are?"
"IthinkI know," said Matilda, looking down.
"But other people won't know. Your being baptized will not mean anything to them, only that somebody has coaxed you into it."
"It will mean all that, Norton; and if I am true they willseeit means all that."
"They might see it all the same without your being baptized. What difference would that make?"
"It isobedience," said Matilda, firmly. "And not to do it would be disobedience. And it is profession of faith; and not to do it, would be to say that I don't believe."
Norton looked amused, and pleased, and a little puzzled.
"You have not told me anything about you, after all," he said; "for I knew it all before."
"How did you know it?"
"Not this about your being baptized, you know, but aboutyou."
"What about me?"
"I say, Matilda, when will you come and play croquet again?"
"I don't know. But, O Norton, I must go now. I forgot all about it. And there was something else I wanted to say. I wish you would be a servant of Jesus too?"
Matilda gave this utterance a little timidly. But Norton only looked at her and smiled, and finally closed the question by taking her in his arms and giving her two kisses this time. It was done without a bit of shamefacedness on his part, and with the energy and the tenderness too of affection. Matilda was extremely astonished and somewhat discomposed; but the evident kindness excused the freedom, and on the whole she found nothing to object. Norton opened the iron gate for her, and she hurried off homewards without another word.
In a dream of pleasure she hurried along, feeling that Norton Laval was a great gain to her, and that croquet was the most delightful of amusements, and that all the weariness of the day's work was taken out of her heart. She only regretted, as she went, that those poor people in Lilac Lane had heard no reading; but she resolved she would go to them to-morrow.
There is one time, however, for doing everything that ought to be done; and if that time is lost, no human calculation can make sure a second opportunity. Matilda was to find this in the case of Lilac Lane. The next day weather kept her at home. The second day she was too busy to go on such an expedition. The third was Sunday. And when Monday came, all thoughts of what she had intended to do were put out of her head by her mother's condition. Mrs. Englefield was declared to be seriously ill.
The doctor was summoned. Her fever had taken a bad turn, he said. It was a very bad turn; for after a few days it was found to be carrying her swiftly to death's door. She was unable to see her children, or at least unable to recognise and speak to them, until the very last day; and then too feeble. And the Sunday when Matilda had expected to be baptized, saw her mother's funeral instead.
Anne and Letitia came up from New York, but were obliged to return thither immediately after the funeral; and the two younger girls were left to their grief. It was well for them now that they, had plenty of business, plenty of active work on hand. It was a help to Maria; after a little it diverted her thoughts and took her out of the strain of sorrow. And it was a help to Matilda, but in a more negative way. It kept the child from grieving herself ill, or doing herself a mischief with violent sorrow; it was no relief. In every unoccupied moment, whenever the demands of household business left her free to do what she would, the little girl bent beneath her burden of sorrow. Kneeling before her open Bible, her tears flowed incessantly every moment when the luxury of indulgence could be allowed them. Mrs. Candy did not see the whole of this; she was rarely in the girls' room; yet she saw enough to become uneasy, and tried all that she knew to remedy it. Clarissa was kind, to her utmost power of kindness. Even Maria was stirred to try some soothing for her little sister. But Matilda could not be soothed. Maria's instances and persuasions did, however, at last urge her to the point of showing a part of her thoughts and disclosing the thorn that pressed sharpest on her mind. It was, that she had not pleased her mother by doing her best in the studies she had pursued at school. Matilda had always been a little self-indulgent; did not trouble herself with study; made no effort to reach or keep a good place in her classes. Mrs. Englefield had urged and commanded her in vain. Not obstinately, but with a sort of gay carelessness, Matilda had let these exhortations slip; had studied when she was interested, and lagged behind her companions in the pursuits she found dry. And now, she could not forgive herself nor cease her sorrowing on account of this failure.
Maria in despair at last took Mrs. Candy into her confidence, and besought her to comfort Matilda, which Mrs. Candy tried her best to do. She represented that Matilda had always been a good child; had loved and honoured her mother, and constantly enjoyed her favour. Matilda heard, but answered with sobs.
"I am sure, my dear," her aunt said, "you have nothing to reproach yourself with. We are none of us perfect."
"I didn't do what I could, aunt Candy!" was Matilda's answer.
"My dear, hardly anybody—the best of us—does all he might do."
"I will," said Matilda.