Anne and Letitia were to leave home in the afternoon of Monday; and
Maria and Matilda went to school that morning as usual. But when the
noon hour came, Matilda called her sister into a corner of the emptied
schoolroom, and sat down with a face of business.
"What is the matter?" said Maria. "We must go home to dinner."
"I should like to speak to you here first."
"About what? Say it and be quick; for I am ever so hungry. Aunt Candy
cut my breakfast short this morning."
"I wanted to say to you that we had better take home our books."
"What for?" said Maria, with opening eyes.
"Because, Maria, mamma was talking to me last night about it. You know
there will be no one at home now, after to-day, but you and me."
"Aunt Erminia and Clarissa?"
"Nobody to do anything, I mean."
"Can't they do anything? I don't know what you are talking of, Matilda;
but I know I want my dinner."
"Who do you think will get dinner to-morrow?"
"Well--mother's sick of course; and Anne and Letty are going. I should
think Aunt Candy might."
"No, she won't."
"How do you know?"
"Because mother said so. She won't do anything."
"Then she'll have to get a girl to do things, I suppose."
"But Maria, that is just what mother wants she shouldn't do; because
she'd have to pay for it."
"Who would have to pay for it?"
"Mamma."
"Why would she?"
"She said so."
"I don't see why she would, I am sure. If Aunt Erminia hires a girl,
_she'll_ pay for her."
"But that will come out of what Aunt Erminia pays to mamma; and what
Aunt Erminia pays to mamma is what we have got to live upon."
"Who said so?"
"Mamma said so." Matilda answered with her lip trembling; for the
bringing facts all down to hard detail was difficult to bear.
"Well, I _do_ think," exclaimed Maria, "if I had a sister sick and not
able to help herself, I would not be so mean!"
Matilda sat still and cried and said nothing.
"Who _is_ going to do all the work then, Tilly?"
There would have been something comical, if it had not been sad, in the
way the little girl looked up and said, "You and I."
"I guess we will!" said Maria, with opening eyes. "You and I! Take care
of the house, and wash the dishes, and cook the dinner, and everything!
You know we couldn't, Matilda; and what's more, _I_ know we won't."
"Yes, mamma wishes it. We must; and so we can, Maria."
"_I_ can't," said Maria, taking down her school cloak.
"But, Maria! we must. Mamma will be more sick if we do not; you heard
what Aunt Candy said at breakfast, that she is fearfully nervous; and
if she hears that there is a hired girl in the house, it will worry her
dreadfully."
"It will be Aunt Candy's fault then," said Maria, fastening her cloak.
"I never heard of anybody so mean in all my life!--never."
"But that don't help anything, Maria. And you and I _must_ do what
mamma said. You know we shall have little enough to live on, as it is,
and if you take the pay of a hired girl out of it, there will be so
little left."
"I've got my twenty-five dollars, that I can get summer dresses with; I
am glad I haven't spent it," said Maria. "Come, Tilly; I'm going home."
"But, Maria, you have not said what you ought to say yet."
"What ought I to say?"
"I will help and do my part. We can manage it. Come, Maria, say that
you will."
"Your part," said Maria. "What do you suppose your part would come to?
What can such a child as you do?"
"Maria, now is the time to show whether you are really one of the Band
of workers."
"I am, of course. I joined it."
"That would not make you one of them, if you don't do what they
promised to do."
"When did I ever promise to be Aunt Candy's servant girl?" said Maria,
fiercely. "I should like to know."
"But 'we are the servants of Christ,'" said Matilda, softly, her eyes
glistening through.
"What then?"
"We promised to try to do whatever would honour Him."
"I don't know what all this affair has to do with it," said Maria. "You
say _we_ promised;--you didn't?"
"Yes, I did."
"You didn't join the Band?"
"Yes, I did."
"When?"
"A few days after you did."
"Why didn't you tell me? Did you tell Mr. Richmond?"
"Yes."
"I think it is mean, that you did not tell me."
"I am telling you now. But now, Maria, you know what you promised."
"I did not promise this sort of thing at all, Tilly."
"Yes, don't you know? 'we stand ready to do His will.' That's in the
covenant."
"But _this_ is not His will," insisted Maria. "This is Aunt Erminia's
meanness."
"But it certainly is His will that we should do what mamma says, and
please her; and this is the work He has given us to do."
Maria's answer this time was to sit down and cry for her part. Matilda
did not join her, but stood by, patiently waiting. Maria cried and
sobbed for several minutes; then she started up and set off homewards
at a furious rate. Matilda gathered together her books and followed her
sister; trying to comfort herself with the thought that this _was_
certainly the work given them to do, and that she would try and make
the best of it.
The dinner was sorrowful enough. Maria, indeed, ate it as if
remembering it was the last dinner for some time to come that she would
find ready prepared for her. But Anne and Letty were broken down with
grief; and Mrs. Candy's endeavours to comfort them were either not the
right sort, or fell upon unready ears. Clarissa was composed as usual.
"You were late from school, Maria and Matilda," their aunt remarked,
finding Anne and Letty unmanageable. "What was the reason?"
"Tilly was talking to me," Maria said.
"You could talk on the way home, I should think. I dislike to have
dinner eaten by stages; first one set coming, and then another. I am
going to ask you to be punctual for the future. Do not be in a hurry,
Maria; there is time enough, now you are here, to eat moderately."
"I am hungry. I don't want to eat moderately, Aunt Erminia."
"As much as you wish; but you can be moderate in manner, cannot you,
even if not in quantity?"
"Nobody ever told me I eat too much, before," said Maria.
"There are a great many things that you have never been told, I
suppose?" said Clarissa, lifting her handsome eyes quietly.
"I don't care about your telling me either," said Maria.
"My dear, that is not polite," interposed her aunt. "I am sorry to hear
you speak so. Would you not like to have Issa, or any one, tell you
things that you would be the better for. You would not wish to remain
just as you are, to the end of your days?"
"It don't hurt anybody but me," said Maria.
"I beg your pardon. Everything that is not graceful and well-mannered,
on the part of people in whose company we are, hurts me and Clarissa.
It hurts me to have you bolt down your food as you were doing just
now--if I am sitting at the same table with you. And it hurts me to
have you speak rudely. I hope you will mend in all these things."
"It will not hurt you to have us say good-bye," said Anne, rising. "I
will do that now, if you please. Letty, I will leave you to take care
of these things, and I will finish the packing. We must be quick, too."
The farewell greetings with her aunt and cousin were soon spoken; and
Maria and Matilda tore up-stairs after their sister, to pour out tears
and complaints together during the remaining moments of her being at
home. Matilda's tears, however, were quiet and her words very few.
"Ain't she too bad!" exclaimed Maria.
"You must try and hold your own the best you can," said Anne, "until
mamma gets up again. Poor children! I am afraid she will be too much
for you."
"But, Anne, did you think Aunt Candy was like that?" said Maria. "She
wasn't like that at first."
"I guess she was. All she wanted was a chance. Now she's got it. Try
and bear it the best you can till mamma is well. She cannot be worried
now."
"Is mamma very sick, Anne?" Matilda ventured.
"N-o," said Anne, "but she might be, Tilly, if she was worried. The
doctor says she is very nervous, and must be kept quiet. She has been
worrying so long, you see. So you must try and not do anything to fret
her."
The prospect was sad. When the omnibus came to take Anne and Letty to
the station, and when the last kisses and hugs were over, and the
omnibus bounced away, carrying with it all they had at the moment, the
two girls left at home felt forlorn enough. The only thing to be done
was to rush up-stairs to their room and cry their hearts out. And that
was done thoroughly.
But by and by, Matilda's thoughts, in their very extreme need of
comfort, began to take up the words again which she had once found so
good: "Cast thy burden upon the Lord; He shall sustain thee." She left
her sobbing, dried her eyes, sat down by the window, and found the
place in her Bible, that her eyes might have the comfort of seeing and
reading the words there. The Lord's words: Tilly knew they were true.
But Maria sobbed on. At last her little sister called her.
"What is it?" said she.
"Come here,--and I will show you something good."
"Good?--what?" said Maria, approaching the window. "Oh, words in the
Bible!"
"Read, Maria."
"I have read them before," said the other, sullenly, after she had
glanced at the place.
"But they are true, Maria."
"Well; they don't help me."
"But they help _me_," said Matilda. "It's Jesus' promise to help."
"I don't believe it is for such things as this."
"Why not?" said Matilda, a sudden chill coming over her heart. "It says
just, 'Cast thy burden'--it might be any burden; it does not signify
what it is, Maria."
"Yes, it does; it is not for such little things," said Maria. "It is
for great religious people and their affairs. Oh dear! oh dear!"
Sorely troubled now at having her supports knocked away from under her,
Matilda eagerly sought further, if perchance she might find something
that Maria could not question. Her Bible had a few references in the
margin; consulting these, she presently found what she had need of; but
a feeling of want of sympathy between them forbade her to show the new
words to her sister. Matilda pored over them with great rest of heart;
gave thanks for them; and might have used with truth David's
language--"Thy words were found, and I did eat them." The words were
these:--
"Be careful for nothing; but in everything, by prayer and supplication
with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known unto God. And the
peace of God that passeth understanding shall keep your hearts and
minds through Christ Jesus."
Matilda's eyes were dry and her voice was clear, when she reminded her
sister that it was time to get tea. Maria was accustomed to do this
frequently, and made no objection now. So the two went down together.
Passing the parlour door, however, it opened, and Mrs. Candy called
Matilda in.
"I want to speak a word to you, Tilly," she said. "Did you go out last
evening?"
"Yes; I did, aunt Erminia."
"You went to church?"
Matilda assented; but though she had bowed her head, it seemed to be
more erect than before.
"And I had told you not to go, had I not? You understood that?"
A silent assent was again all that the child gave.
"I am accustomed to be obeyed," said Mrs. Candy. "That is my way. It
may not be your mother's way; but all the same, I am mistress here
while she is sick; mistress over you as well as the rest. You must obey
me like all the rest. Will you?"
What was meant by "all the rest" Matilda marvelled, seeing that nobody
else but Maria and her own daughter were left in the house. This time
she gave no sign of answering; she only stood and listened.
"Will you obey me, Tilly?"
Matilda was not sure whether she would. In her mind it depended on
circumstances. She would obey, conditionally. But she would not
compromise her dignity by words about it. She was silent.
"I must be obeyed," Mrs. Candy went on, with mild tones, although a
displeased face. "If not willingly, then unwillingly. I shall punish
you, Matilda, if you disobey me; and so severely that you will find it
best not to do it again. But I should be very sorry to have you drive
me to such disagreeable doings. We should both be sorry together. It is
much best not to let things come to such extremity."
Matilda coloured high, but except that and the slight gesture of her
head, she yet gave no reply.
"That is enough upon that subject," the lady went on. "Only, I should
be glad to have you tell me that you will try to please me."
"I wish to please everybody--as far as I can," Matilda said at last.
"Then you will please me?"
"I hope so."
"She hopes so, Issa," said Mrs. Candy, turning her head round towards
where her daughter sat.
"American children, mamma," was Clarissa's comment.
"There is another thing, Matilda," Mrs. Candy resumed after a slight
pause. "Your mother has told me that Maria is competent to do the work
of the house until she gets well. Is she? and will Maria, do you think,
try to please me as much as you do?"
"Yes, ma'am. I think she can--she and I. We will do it," Matilda
answered more readily.
"She and you! What can you do?"
"I can help a little."
"Well then, that is settled; and I need not look out for a girl?"
"Oh no, aunt Candy. She and I can do it."
"But mind, I must have things in order, and well done. It is my
sister's choice, that Maria should do it. But it is not mine unless I
can have everything in good order. You may tell Maria so, and let her
understand what it is she is undertaking. I am to have no dusty stairs,
and no half-set tables. If she wants instruction in anything, I am
willing to give it; but I cannot have disorder. Now you may go and tell
her; and tell her to have tea ready in half an hour."
"What did she want of you?" Maria asked, when Matilda rejoined her
down-stairs.
"She wanted to talk to me about my going out last evening."
"Oh! was she in a great fuss about it?"
"And Maria, she wants tea to be ready in half an hour."
"I'll have it ready sooner than that," said Maria, bustling about.
"But you must not. She wants it in half an hour; you must not have it
ready before."
"Why not?" said Maria, stopping short.
"Why, she wants it _then_. She has a right to have tea when she likes."
But Matilda sighed as she spoke, for her aunt's likings were becoming a
heavy burden to her, in the present and in the future. The two girls
went gently round, setting the table, cutting the bread, putting out
the sweetmeat, getting the teapot ready for the tea; then they stood
together over the stove, waiting for the time to make it.
"There's one comfort," Matilda said with another sigh;--"we can do it
all for Christ."
"What?" said Maria, starting.
"It is work He has given us to do, you know, Maria; and we have
promised to do everything we can to please Him. So we can do this to
please Him."
"I don't see how," said Maria. "_This_ isn't Band work;--do you think
it is?"
"It isn't Sunday-School work; but, Maria, you know, 'we are the
servants of Christ.' Now He has given us this work to do."
"That's just talking nonsense," said Maria. "There is no religion in
pots and kettles."
Matilda had to think her way out of that statement.
"Maria, in the covenant, you know, we say 'we stand ready to do His
will;' and you _know_ it is His will that we should have these things
to do."
"I don't!" said Maria; "that's a fact."
"Then how comes it that we have them?"
"Just because mamma is sick, and Aunt Erminia is too mean to live!"
"You should not speak so," said Matilda. "How comes mamma to be sick?
and how comes it that we have got no money to hire a girl?"
"Because that man in New York was wicked, and ran away with mamma's
money."
"Maria," said Matilda, solemnly, "I don't see what you meant by joining
the Band."
"I meant more than you did!" said Maria, flaming out. "Such children as
you are too young to join it."
"We are not too young to be Christians."
"You are too young to join the Church and be baptized."
"Why?" said Matilda.
"Oh, you are too young to _understand_. Anybody that knows will tell
you so. And if you are not fit to be baptized and join the Church, you
are not fit to join the Band. Now I can make the tea."
Matilda looked hard at the teapot, as it stood on the stove while the
tea was brewing; but she let her sister alone after that. When the meal
was over, and the dishes washed and everything done, she and Maria went
up to their own room, and Maria at once went to bed. Her little sister
opened her Bible, and read, over and over, the words that had comforted
her. They were words from God; promises and commands straight from
heaven. Matilda took them so, and studied earnestly how she might do
what they bade her. "Cast her burden on the Lord"--how was she to do
that? Clearly, she was not to keep it on her own heart, she thought;
she must trust that the Lord would take care of anything put into His
hands. The words were very good. And the other words? "Be careful for
nothing"--that was the same thing differently expressed; and Matilda
felt very glad it had been written for her in both places and in both
ways; and that she was ordered "in everything" to "make her requests
known to God." She might not have dared, perhaps, in some little
troubles that only concerned a child and were not important to anybody
else; but now there could be no doubt--she might, and she must. She was
very glad. But, "with thanksgiving?"--how could that be always? Now,
for instance? Things were more disagreeable and sorrowful than in all
her life she had ever known them; "give thanks"? must she? _now?_ And
how could she? Matilda studied over it a good while. Finally took to
praying over it. Asked to be taught how she could give thanks when she
was sorry. And getting quite tired, at last went to bed, where Maria
was already fast asleep.
There is no denying that Matilda was sorry to wake up the next morning.
But awake she found herself, and broad awake too; and the light outside
the window admonished her she had no time then to lie and think. She
roused Maria immediately, and herself began dressing without a moment's
delay.
"Oh, what's the hurry!" said Maria, yawning and stretching herself.
"I'm sleepy."
"But it isn't early, Maria."
"Well; I don't want it to be early."
"Yes, you do, Maria; you forget. We have a great deal on our hands.
Make haste, please, and get up. Do, Maria!"
"What have we got to do so much?" said Maria, with yawn the second.
"Everything. You are so sleepy, you have forgotten."
"Yes. I have forgotten," said Maria, closing her eyes.
"O Maria, please do get up! I'm almost dressed; and I can't do the
whole, you know. Won't you get up?"
"What's the matter, Tilly?" said her sister, rolling over, and opening
her eyes quietly at Matilda.
"I am going down, Maria, in two minutes; and I cannot do everything,
you know."
"Clarissa'll help."
"If you expect that, Maria, you will be disappointed. I wish you would
come right down and make the fire."
Maria lay still. Matilda finished her dressing, and then knelt down by
the window.
The burden upon her seemed rather heavy, and she went to her only
source of help. Maria lay and looked at the little kneeling figure, so
still there by the window; glanced at the growing light outside the
window, then at her scattered articles of clothing, lying where she had
thrown them or dropped them last night; and at last rolled herself out
of bed and was dressing in earnest when Matilda rose up to go
down-stairs.
"Oh now, you'll soon be ready!" she exclaimed. "Make haste, Maria; and
come down to the kitchen. The fire is the first thing."
Then the little feet went with a light tread down the stairs, that she
might disturb nobody, and paused in the hall. The light struggling in
through the fanlights over the door; the air close; a smell of kerosene
in the parlour; chairs and table in a state of disarrangement; the
litter of Clarissa's work on the carpet; the parlour stove cold. Little
Matilda wished to herself that some other hands were there, not hers,
to do all that must be done. But clearly Maria would never get through
with it. She stood looking a minute; then plunged into the work. She
opened the shutters and the curtains, and threw up the windows. Then
picked up the litter. Then she saw that the services of a broom were
needed; and Matilda fetched the broom, and brushed out the parlour and
the hall. It tired her arms; she was not used to it. Dusting the
furniture was more in her line; and then Matilda came to the conclusion
that if a fire was to be kindled in time this morning, it must be done
by herself; Maria would be fully occupied in the kitchen. So
down-stairs she went for billets of wood for kindling. There was Maria,
in trouble.
"This stove won't draw, Tilly."
"What is the matter?"
"Why _that_. It won't draw. It just smokes."
"It always does draw, Maria."
"Well, it won't to-day."
"Did you put kindling enough in?"
"There's nothing but kindling!--and smoke."
"Why, you've got the damper turned," said Matilda, coming up to look;
"see, that's the matter. It won't light with the damper turned."
"Stupid!" Maria muttered; and Matilda went off to make her own fire.
Happily that did not smoke. The parlour and hall were all in nice
order; the books put in place, and everything ready for the comfort of
people when they should come to enjoy it; and Matilda went to join her
sister in the kitchen. The fire was going there too, and the kitchen
warm, and Maria stood with her hands folded, in front of the stove.
"I don't know what to get for breakfast," she said.
"Is the other room ready?"
"I set the table," said Maria; "but what is to go on it, I don't know."
Matilda went in to look at the state of things; presently called her
sister.
"Maria, you didn't sweep the carpet."
"No. Of course I didn't. Rooms don't want to be swept every day."
"This one does. Look at the muss under the table."
"Only some crumbs," said Maria.
"And a bone. Letty was in a hurry yesterday, I guess. Aunt Candy won't
like it, Maria; it won't do."
"I don't care whether she likes it."
"But don't you care whether she scolds? because I do. And the room is
not nice, Maria. Mother wouldn't have it so."
"Well, you may sweep it if you like."
"I cannot. I am tired. You must make it nice, Maria, won't you? and
I'll see about the breakfast."
"The table's all set!" Maria remonstrated.
"It won't take long to do it over, Maria. But what have we got for
breakfast?"
"Nothing--that I know."
"Did you look in the cellar?"
"No."
"Why, where _did_ you look?" said Matilda, laughing. "Come; let us go
down and see what is there."
In the large, clean, light cellar there were hanging shelves which
served the purposes of a larder. The girls peered into the various
stores collected on them.
"Here's a dish of cold potatoes," said Maria.
"That will do for one thing," said Matilda.
"Cold?"
"Why, no! fried, Maria."
"I can't fry potatoes."
"Why, yes, you can, Maria; you have seen mamma do it hundreds of times."
"Here's the cold beefsteak that was left yesterday."
"Cold beefsteak isn't good," said Matilda.
"Can't we warm it?"
"How?"
"I don't know; might put it in the oven; it would get hot there.
There's a good oven."
"I don't think mamma ever warms cold beefsteak," said Matilda, looking
puzzled.
"What does she do with it? she don't throw it away. How do you know she
doesn't warm it? you wouldn't know, when you saw it on the table,
whether it was just fresh cooked, or only warmed up. How could you
tell?"
"Well," said Matilda, dubiously, "you can try. I wish I could ask
somebody."
"I shall not ask anybody up-stairs," said Maria. "Come--you take the
potatoes and I will carry the beefsteak. Then we will make 'the coffee
and have breakfast. I'm as hungry as I can be."
"So am I," said Matilda. And she sighed a little, for she was tired as
well as hungry. Maria set the dish of beefsteak in the oven to get hot,
and Matilda made the coffee. She knew quite well how to do that. Then
she came to the table where Maria was preparing the potatoes to fry.
Maria's knife was going chop, chop, very fast.
"O Maria! you should have peeled them," Matilda exclaimed, in dismay.
"Peeled!" said Maria, stopping short.
"Certainly. Why, you knew that, Maria. Potatoe parings are not good to
eat."
"It takes ages to peel such little potatoes," said Maria.
"But you cannot eat them without being peeled," said Matilda.
"Yes, you can; it won't make any difference. I will fry them so brown,
nobody will know whether they have skins on or not."
Matilda doubted very much the feasibility of this plan; but she left
Maria and went off to make sure that the fires in the other rooms were
burning right and everything in proper trim. Then she sat down in a
rocking-chair in the eating-room to rest; wishing very earnestly that
there was somebody to help who knew more about business than either she
or Maria. How were they to get along? And she had promised her mother.
And yet more, Matilda felt sure that just this work had been given to
her and Maria to do by the Lord himself. Therefore they could do it for
Him. Therefore, all the more, Matilda wanted to do it in the very
nicest and best way possible. She wished she had attended when she had
seen her mother cooking different things; now she might have known
exactly how to manage. And that reminded her, Maria's beef and potatoes
must be done. She ran into the kitchen.
"There!" said Maria. "Can you see the skins now?"
"They are brown enough," said Matilda. "But, Maria, they'll be very
hard!"
"Never you mind!" said Maria, complacently.
"Have you looked at your beefsteak?"
"No; but it must be hot before now."
Maria opened the oven door; and then, with an exclamation, seized a
cloth and drew out the dish of meat. The dish took their attention
first. It was as brown as Maria's potatoes. It had gone into the oven
white.
"It is spoiled," said Matilda.
"Who would have thought the oven was so hot!" said Maria. "Won't it
come all right with washing?"
"You might as well wash your beefsteak," said Matilda, turning away.
If the dish had gone in white, the meat had also gone in juicy; and if
the one was brown the other was a chip.
"This will not do for breakfast," said Maria, lugubriously.
"It is like your potatoes," said Matilda, with the ineffable little
turn of her head.
"Don't, Matilda! What shall we do? the coffee is ready."
"We shall have a brown breakfast," said Matilda. "The coffee will be
the lightest coloured thing on the table." And the two girls relieved
themselves with laughing.
"But, Matilda! what shall we _do?_ We must have something to eat."
"We can boil some eggs," said Matilda. "Aunt Erminia likes eggs; and
the coffee will be good, and the bread. And the potatoes will do to
look at."
So it was arranged; and the bell was rung for breakfast only five
minutes after the time. And all was in order.
Even Mrs. Candy's good eyes found no fault. And breakfast went forward
better than Matilda had dared to hope.
"You have done your potatoes too much, Maria," Mrs. Candy remarked.
"Yes, ma'am," Maria said, meekly.
"They want no more but a light colouring. And they should be cut
thinner. These are so hard you can't eat them. And, Maria, in future I
will tell you what to get for breakfast. I did not know when you went
to bed last night, or I should have told you then. You are not old
enough to arrange things. Now there was some beef left from dinner
yesterday, that would have made a nice hash."
Maria ate bread and butter, and spoke not.
"It will keep very well, and you can make it into hash for to-morrow
morning. Chop it as fine as you can, and twice as much potato; and warm
it with a little butter and milk and pepper and salt, till it is nice
and hot; and poach a few eggs, to lay round it. Can you poach eggs,
Maria?"
"Yes, ma'am. But there is no beef, Aunt Erminia."
"No beef? You are mistaken. There was a large piece that we did not eat
yesterday."
"There is none now," said Maria.
"It must be down-stairs in the cellar."
"I am sure it is not, aunt Erminia. I have been poking into every
corner there; and there is no beef, I know."
"Maria, that is a very inelegant way of speaking. Where did you get it?"
"I don't know, ma'am, I'm sure. Out of the truth, I suppose. That's
what I _did_."
"It is a very inelegant way of doing, as well as of speaking. _Poking_
into every thing! What did you poke? your finger? or your hand?"
"My nose, I suppose," said Maria, hardily.
"I think I need not tell you that _that_ is 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 she
_can_ overlook 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 you _wouldn't_ say 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 she _was_ vexed 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 do _so;_' and
Clarissa sitting by with that little smile on her mouth, and lifting up
her eyes to look at you--it just makes me _mad_. 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
do _this_ sort of thing."
"But we mustn't choose," said Matilda.
"But we _did_ choose," 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 of _that_."
"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.