The next day but one, in the afternoon, a little figure set out from
Mrs. Englefield's gate on a solitary expedition. She had left her
sisters and cousin in high debate, over the various probabilities of
pleasure attainable through the means of twenty-five dollars. Matilda
listened gravely for a while; then left them, put on her hood and
cloak, and went out alone. It was rather late in the short winter
afternoon; the slanting sunbeams made a gleam of cheer, though it was
cold cheer too, upon the snowy streets. They stretched away, the white
streets, heaped with banks of snow where the gutters should be,
overhung with brown branches of trees, where in summer the leafy canopy
made a pleasant shade all along the way. No shade was wanted now; the
air was growing more keen already since the sun had got so far down in
the west. Tilly turned the corner, where by Mr. Forshew's hardware shop
there was often a country waggon standing, and always a knot of
loitering men and boys gathering or retailing the news, if there was
any; when there was none, seeking a poorer amusement still in stories
and jests, mingled with profanity and tobacco. Tilly was always glad to
have passed the corner; not that there was the least danger of
incivility from any one lingering there, but she did not like the
neighbourhood of such people. She turned up towards the church, which
stood in one of the principal streets of the village. Matilda herself
lived in the other principal street. The two were at right angles to
each other, each extending perhaps half a mile, with comfortable houses
standing along the way; about the "corner" they stood close together,
for that was the business quarter, and there were the stores. Passing
the stores and shops, there came next a succession of dwelling-houses,
some of more and some of less pretension; in general it was _less_. The
new houses of the successful tradesmen were for the most part in the
street where Matilda's mother lived. These were many of them old and
low; some were poor. Here there was a doctor's shop; there a heap of
dingy sheep skins and brown calf hides cast down at a door, told of the
leather store; here and there hung out a milliner's sign. A few steps
further on the other side of the way, a great brick factory stood;
Matilda had no very distinct notion of what wares it turned out, but
the children believed they were iron works of some sort. A cross street
here led to side ways which extended parallel with the main
thoroughfare, one on the north and one on the south of it, and which,
though more scatteringly built up, were yet a considerable enlargement
of the village. A little further on, and Matilda had reached the
church; in her language _the_ church, though only one of several in
which the villagers delighted. A great creamy-brown edifice, of no
particular style of architecture, with a broad porch upheld by a row of
big pillars, and a little square tower where hung a bell, declared to
be the sweetest and clearest of all in the neighbourhood. So, many
thought, were the utterances inside the church. Just beyond, Matilda
could see the lecture-room, with its transepts, and its pretty hood
over the door, for all which and sundry other particulars concerning it
she had a private favour; but Matilda did not go so far this afternoon.
Short of the lecture-room, a gate in the fence of the church grounds
stood open; a large gate, through which waggons and carriages sometimes
passed; Matilda turned in there, and picked her way over the ridgy snow
down the lane that led to the parsonage.
The parsonage sat thus quietly back from the sights and noises of the
street; a little brown house, it looked, half hidden in summer by the
sweeping foliage of the elms that overarched the little lane; half
sheltered now in winter by a goodly pine-tree that stood in the centre
of the little plot of grass round which swept the road to the
front-door. Wheels or runners had been there, for the road was tracked
with them; but not many, for the villagers needed no such help to get
to the minister, and there were few of the church people who lived at a
distance and could leave their work and take their teams on a week-day
to come a-pleasuring; and still fewer who were rich enough to do as
they liked at all times. There were some; but Matilda ran little risk
of meeting them; and so mounted the parsonage steps and lifted the
knocker with no more than her own private reasons for hesitation,
whatever those might be. She knocked, however, and steps carne within,
and Miss Redwood opened the door.
"Well!" she said, "here's the first one this blessed afternoon. I
thought I was going to get along for once without any one; but such
luck don't come to me. Wipe the snow off, dear, will you, clean? for my
hall's as nice as--well, I don't know what; as nice as it had ought to
be. That will do. Now, come in, for the air's growin' right sharp. What
is it, my dear?"
"Is Mr. Richmond at home?" Matilda asked.
"Well, I s'pose he is. I hain't hearn him nor seen him go out since
noon. Do ye want to see him, or is it a message?--ye want to see him,
eh. Well, I s'pose he'll see you--if he ain't too busy--and I don't
know when he gets time for all he has to do, but he gets it; so I
s'pose I had ought to be satisfied. _I_ don't, I know; but I s'pose men
and women is different. Some folks would say that's a reason why men
was created the first and the best; but I don't think so myself. And
here I am an old goose, a-talkin' to little Tilly Englefield about
philosophy, instead o' lettin' her into the minister's room. Well, come
in, dear; round this way; the minister has taken a notion to keep that
door shut up because of the cold."
Miss Redwood had not been idle during the utterance of this speech.
First she had been shaking the snow from the door mat on which
Matilda's feet had left it; then she seized a broom and brushed the
white masses from the hall carpet out to the piazza, and even off the
painted boards of that. Finally came in, shut the door, and led Matilda
to the back of the hall, where it turned, and two doors, indeed three,
confronted each other across a yard of intervening space. The
housekeeper knocked at the one which led into the front room; then set
it open for Matilda to go in, and closed it after her.
A pleasant room that was, though nothing in the world could be more
unadorned. Deal shelves all around were filled with books; a table or
two were piled with them; one, before the fire, was filled as well with
papers and writing materials. This fronted, however, a real blazing
fire, the very thing Miss Redwood had once been so uneasy about; in a
wide open chimney-place, where two great old-fashioned brass andirons
with round heads held a generous load of oak and hickory sticks, softly
snapping and blazing. The sweet smell of the place struck Matilda's
sense, almost before she saw the minister. It was a pure, quiet,
scented atmosphere that the room held; where comfort and study seemed
to lurk in the very folds of the chintz window-curtains, and to shine
in the firelight, and certainly seemed to fill Mr. Richmond's arm-chair
even when he was not in it. He rose out of it now to meet his little
visitor, and laid study on the table. Of one sort.
"All's well at home, Tilly?" he asked, as he put her into his own chair.
"Yes, sir."
"And you do not come to me with any message but to see me yourself?"
"Yes, sir."
"That's nice. Now while you are talking to me, I will roast you an
apple."
Matilda looked on with great curiosity and as great a sense of relief,
while Mr. Richmond took out of a cupboard a plate of apples, chose a
fine one with a good bit of stem, tied a long pack-thread to this, and
then hung the apple by a loop at the other end of the string, to a hook
in the woodwork over the fireplace. The apple, suspended in front of
the blazing fire, began a succession of swift revolutions; first in one
direction and then in the other, as the string twisted or untwisted.
"Did you ever roast an apple so?"
"No, Mr. Richmond."
"It is the best way in the world--when you haven't got any other."
"We haven't got that way at our house," said Matilda; "for we have no
fires; nothing but stoves."
"You speak as if you thought fires were the best plan of the two."
"Oh, I do, Mr. Richmond! I do _not_ like stoves at all. They're so
close."
"I always thought stoves were rather close," said Mr. Richmond. "Now
what did you come to see me roast apples for this afternoon? Did you
come to keep your promise?"
"Yes, sir," Matilda answered, rather faintly.
"Are you sorry you made the promise?" Mr. Richmond inquired, looking at
her. But the look was so pleasant, that Matilda's could not keep its
solemnity. She had come in with a good deal.
"I don't know but I _was_ sorry," she said.
"And you are not sorry now?"
"I think not."
"That is all the better. Now what did you want to say to me, Matilda?"
"You know you made me say I would come, Mr. Richmond."
"Did I? I think not. I do not think I _made_ you say anything--do you
think I did?"
"Well, you _asked_ me, Mr. Richmond."
"Just what did I ask you?"
"You asked me, if I would come and tell you--you said you _wished_ I
would come and tell you--if----"
And Matilda made a great pause. The eyes of her friend seemed only to
be watching the apple, yet perhaps they knew that her little lips were
unsteady and were trying to get steady. He left his seat to attend to
the roast; got a plate and put on the hearth under it; arranged the
fire; then came and with his own hands removed Matilda's hood and
loosened and threw back her cloak; and while he did this he repeated
his question, in tones that were encouragement itself.
"I wished you would come and tell me if--if what?"
"Yes, Mr. Richmond--if I thought I could not do something that I
thought--I ought."
"Yes, I believe that was it, Tilly. Now, to begin with one thing at a
time, what do you think you 'ought' to do?"
"Last night, I mean, Mr. Richmond; I mean, the night before last, at
the meeting."
"I know. Well, what did you think then you ought to do?"
"Mr. Richmond, I think, I thought that I ought to rise up when Maria
and the others did."
"I knew you thought so. Why did you not, then, Matilda?"
"I couldn't."
"Do you know why you could not?"
Again there was difficulty of speech on the child's part. Mr.
Richmond's saying that "he knew" she had had such feelings, was an
endorsement to her conscience; and Matilda could not immediately get
over a certain swelling in her throat, which threatened to put a stop
to the conversation. The minister waited, and she struggled.
"Why could _you_ not do what the others did, Matilda?"
"Mr. Richmond--I didn't want to do the things."
"What things? Bringing new scholars to the Sunday-School, for instance?"
"Oh no, sir, I wouldn't mind doing _that_, or some other things either.
But----"
"You mean, you do not want to pledge yourself to be a servant of the
Lord Jesus Christ?"
"No, sir," after a pause, and low.
"Well, Tilly," said the minister, "I can only be very sorry for you.
You keep yourself out of a great joy."
"But, Mr. Richmond," said Matilda, down whose cheeks quiet tears were
now running, one after another; "don't you think I am very young yet to
be a member of the Church?"
"Do you think Jesus died for you, Tilly?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do you believe He loves you now?"
"Yes, sir."
"You understand all about that. Does _He_ want you to be His obedient
child and dear servant?"
"Yes, Mr. Richmond."
"You know all about that, too. Can you think of any reason why you
should for another year refuse to love Him, refuse to mind Him, and do
all that your example and influence can do to keep others from loving
and minding Him? When He so loves and has loved you?"
Tilly's little hands went up to her face now, and the room was very
still; only the flames softly flickering in the fireplace, and the
apple sputtering before the fire. Mr. Richmond did not say a word for
several minutes.
"Mr. Richmond," said Matilda at last, "do you think anybody cares what
I do?--when I am so little?"
"I think the Lord Jesus cares. He said nobody was to hinder the little
children from coming to Him. And I would rather be in His arms and have
Him bless me, if I were you, than be anywhere else, or have anything
else. And so would you, Tilly."
"But, Mr. Richmond--it is because I am not good."
"Yes, I know it. But that is a reason for giving yourself to the Lord
Jesus. He will make you good; and there is no other way."
But Tilly's trouble at this got beyond management. She left her seat
and came to Mr. Richmond, letting his arm draw her up to him, and
dropping her head on his shoulder.
"O Mr. Richmond," she said, "I don't know how!"
"Don't know how to give yourself to Jesus? Do it in your heart, Tilly.
He is there. Tell Him He may have you for His own child. He is at the
door of your heart knocking; open the door and bid Him come in. He will
make it a glad place if you do."
"Mr. Richmond," said the child, with great difficulty between her
sobs--"won't you tell Him that I will?"
They kneeled down and the minister made a short prayer. But then he
said--
"Now, Tilly, I want you to tell the Lord yourself."
"I can't, Mr. Richmond."
"I think you can. And I want you to try."
They waited and waited. Tilly sobbed softly, but the minister waited
still. At last Tilly's tears ceased; then with her little hands spread
before her face, she said very slowly--
"O Lord, I am a naughty child. I want to be good. I will do everything
that you tell me. Please take my heart and make it all new, and help me
to be strong and do right. Amen."
They rose up, but Mr. Richmond kept the child within his arm, where she
had been standing.
"Now, Tilly, how do we know that our prayers are heard?"
"God has promised, hasn't He, Mr. Richmond?"
"Where? in what words?"
Tilly hesitated, and then repeated part of the verse, "Ask, and it
shall be given you. Seek, and ye shall find."
"And look here," said Mr. Richmond, half turning, so as to bring her
and himself within reach of the Bible that lay at his elbow on the
table--"see here, Matilda. Read these words."
"'If ye shall ask anything in My name, I will do it.'"
"And here,"--
"'Whatsover ye shall ask the Father in My name, He will give it you.'"
"Does Jesus ever break His promises?"
"No, Mr. Richmond; He can't."
"Then remember that, whenever you think of to-day, and whenever you
feel troubled or weak. _You_ are weak, but He is strong; and He cannot
break His promises. So you and I are safe, as long as we hold to Him."
There was silence a little while, and Mr. Richmond set the apple to
twirling again. It had untwisted its string and was hanging still.
"I am to put your name now, I suppose, Tilly, among the names of our
Band; am I?"
"Yes, Mr. Richmond."
"What work would you like specially to do?"
"I do not know, Mr. Richmond; I will think."
"Very well; that is right. And there is another place where your name
ought to go--is there not?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Yes; among those who desire to be members of the Church; to tell the
world they are Christ's people."
"Oh no, Mr. Richmond."
"Why 'oh no, Mr. Richmond'?"
"I am not good enough. I want to be better first."
"How do you expect to get better?"
Silence.
"I suppose your thought is, that Jesus will make your heart new, as you
asked Him just now, and help you to be strong. Is that it?--Yes. And
you do not expect to accomplish the change or grow strong by your own
power?"
"Oh no, sir."
"Don't you think Jesus loves you now as well as He will by and by, and
is as ready to help you?"
"Yes, Mr. Richmond."
"Then, Tilly, I call it just distrust of Him, to hold off from what He
commands you to do, for fear He will not help you to do it. I would be
ashamed to offer such an excuse to Him."
"But--has He commanded _that_, Mr. Richmond?"
"He has commanded us to confess openly that we are His servants, hasn't
He? and to be baptized in token of the change He has wrought in us, and
as a sign that we belong to Him? How can we do either the one or the
other without joining the Church?"
"I thought"--Matilda began, but seemingly did not like to tell what she
had thought.
"Let us have it, Tilly," said her friend, drawing her closer to him.
"You and I are talking confidentially, and it is best in those cases to
talk all out. So what did you think?"
"I thought there were people who were the servants of Christ, and yet
did not join any church," Matilda said softly.
"By not doing it, they as good as say to the world that they are not
His servants. And the world judges accordingly. I have known people
under such a delusion; but when they were honest, I have always known
them to come out of it. If you give all you have to the Lord Jesus, you
must certainly give your influence."
"But, I thought I might wait," Tilly said again.
"Till when?"
"I don't know," she whispered.
"Wait for what?"
"Till I was more like what--I ought to be, Mr. Richmond."
"Till you were more like the Lord Jesus?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do you not think the quickest way to grow like Him would be to do and
obey every word He says?"
Matilda bowed her head a little.
"You will be more likely to grow good and strong that way than any
other; and I am sure the Lord will be more likely to help you if you
trust Him, than if you do not trust Him."
"I think so too," Matilda assented.
"Then we will do everything, shall we, that we think our Lord would
like to have us do? and we will trust Him to help us through with it?"
Mr. Richmond said, with an affectionate look at the child beside him;
and Matilda met the look and answered it with another.
"But, Mr. Richmond----"
"What is it?"
"There is one question I should like to ask."
"Ask it."
"Why ought people to be baptized?"
"Because our Lord commands it. Isn't that a good reason?"
"Yes, sir; but--what does it mean, Mr. Richmond?"
"It is a way of saying to the world, that we have left it, and belong
to the Lord Jesus Christ. It is a way of saying to the world, that His
blood has washed away our sins and His Spirit has made our hearts
clean; or that we trust Him to do both things for us. And it is the
appointed way of saying all this to the world; _His_ appointed way. Do
you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Now, do you not think that those who love the Lord Jesus, ought to be
glad to follow His will in this matter?"
"Yes, sir," Matilda said again, raising her eyes frankly to Mr.
Richmond's face.
"Would you be willing to be left out, when next I baptize some of those
who wish to make it publicly known that they are Christ's?"
"No, sir." And presently she added. "When will that be, Mr. Richmond?"
"I do not know," he answered, thoughtfully. "Not immediately. You and I
must have some more talks before that time."
"You are very good to me, Mr. Richmond," Matilda said, gratefully.
"Have we said all we ought to say this time? Are there any more
questions to bring up?"
"_I_ haven't any to bring up," Matilda said.
"Is all clear that we have been talking about?"
"I think so."
"Now, will you be good to me, and stay and take supper with me? That
knock at the door means that Miss Redwood would like to have me know
that supper is ready. And you shall have this apple we have been
roasting."
"Mr. Richmond, I think mamma would be frightened if I did not go home."
"She does not know where you are?"
"Nobody knows," said Matilda.
"Then it won't do to let you stay. You shall come another time, and we
will roast another apple, won't you?"
"I should like to come," said Matilda. "Mr. Richmond, didn't you say
you were going to talk to the Band and explain things, when we have our
meetings?"
"I did say so. What do you want explained?"
"Some time,--I would like to know just all it means, to be a servant of
Christ."
"All it means," said Mr. Richmond. "Well, it means a good deal, Tilly.
I think we had better begin there with our explanations. I shall not
make it a lecture; it will be more like a class; so you may ask as many
questions as you please."