_MATILDA DISTINGUISHES HERSELF._
MATILDA JENKINS had not been one of those who stopped after school
to talk over the work. She had appeared unusually thoughtful in the
class, and had made some remarks which caused Miss Ackerman to look
at her with mingled surprise and approval. Truth to tell, Matilda had
been something of a trial, and Miss Ackerman had more than once been
tempted to wish that the superintendent in his zeal for classification
had classified Matilda somewhere else. But to-day she felt encouraged.
Matilda had not giggled once; she had given her whole mind to the
lesson, which she had evidently studied beforehand; and when Miss
Ackerman spoke of the love of the Father in sending his Son to die for
sinners, she felt sure there were tears in Matilda's eyes.
When Matilda arrived at home, she found, somewhat to her annoyance,
that her mother had company. Miss Smithson, their nearest neighbor,
had dropped in after church to see Mrs. Jenkins and tell her the news
she had gathered in the course of her week's dressmaking from house to
house. Matilda did not like Miss Smithson, and she particularly wished
to be quiet and think this day; but she greeted Miss Smithson civilly.
"Was that Eunice Riker in Sunday-school?" asked Miss Smithson when
Matilda had laid aside her hat and seated herself.
"Eunice? Yes, of course," answered Matilda.
"Well, I declare! She has brass enough! So she actually came into the
class as if nothing had happened? Was Miss Ferarra there?"
"Yes, she was there."
"And did she speak to Eunice?"
"Of course she did: why shouldn't she?" asked Matilda, surprised and
aroused from her own thoughts to take an interest in the conversation.
"She sat by Eunice and spoke to her two or three times. They are great
friends!"
"Well, I do think they are queer. I believe in forgiving folks, of
course, but that is carrying matters a little too far. I suppose they
don't like to own that they were imposed upon."
"What do you mean?" asked Matilda.
"Why, don't you know that Eunice Riker has been found out in stealing?
She stole Mrs. Ferarra's gold thimble and ever so many other things,
and she took the yarn Mrs. Ackerman gave her to knit for the
missionaries, and traded it off for some finery for herself; and oh
ever so many things!"
"I don't believe it," said Matilda, bluntly as usual. "Who told you?"
"Mrs. Murray's nurse-girl, Lizzy Bates. She says Mrs. Murray has taken
her washing away from Mrs. Riker and given it to Sarah Southmayd,
because she missed so many things."
"And I suppose you believe every word Lizzy Bates says?"
"Well, I don't suppose she would tell a lie about it," said Miss
Smithson.
"Don't you? Then, if she said the reason some of the ladies on the hill
have Bessie Melville to work instead of you is because you contrive
to get rid of so much cloth and trimming that nobody can account for
afterward, that would be all true too?" said Matilda demurely, but with
a sparkle of fun in her eyes.
Miss Smithson turned scarlet. "The impudent thing!" she exclaimed. "I'd
just like to know how she dared to say that? If I don't give her a
piece of my mind when I see her!"
"Wait a minute," said Matilda. "I didn't say Lizzy did say so; I only
said 'if' she did. I wanted to see how you would like it when it came
to your turn. I don't see why it is any worse to tell stories about you
than about Eunice."
Miss Smithson subsided a little. She would have liked to box Matilda's
ears, but she knew that would not do, and she wanted to get a little
more news out of her for the benefit of her next customer.
"I suppose you think that's very witty," said she; "I must say I don't
think such jokes are very fit for Sunday."
"I suppose repeating stories about people, and taking away the
character of a good, pious girl who helps her mother all she can, is
very fit talk for Sunday?" said Matilda. "I have heard you say half a
dozen times that Lizzy Bates was an idle, gossiping thing, not fit to
be trusted with a baby; and only the very last time you were in here,
you said if Mr. Murray wasn't a fool, he would put a stop to his wife's
extravagance and goings-on; you know you did," added Matilda, who, I
fear, decidedly enjoyed having Miss Smithson "under the harrow," as
the Scotch say. "Suppose I go and tell that to somebody—say to Minny
Haynes?"
"You wouldn't be so mean, Matilda Jenkins," said Miss Smithson, greatly
alarmed, for Minny Haynes was the daughter of Mrs. Murray's landlady.
"But why is it any meaner in one case than the other? That's what I
want to know, Miss Smithson. My story would at least be true, whereas
you don't know whether yours is true or not."
"Don't you worry, Miss Smithson; Matilda isn't going to do anything
of the kind," said Mrs. Jenkins. "She must have her joke and her say,
like her father before her.—So Miss Ackerman and Miss Ferarra treated
Eunice just as usual?—Well, I must say that don't look as if there was
anything wrong, Miss Smithson."
"That's nothing," returned Miss Smithson with a toss of her head and a
very needless elevation of her sharp nose. "It only proves just what
I say, that they are determined to uphold Eunice through thick and
thin, because she is a church-member. Anyhow, it was Mrs. Ferarra's own
cousin, who was visiting her—Miss Fay—who set the story going about
the thimble, for I heard Mrs. Gunderson tell Mrs. Murray so when I was
there making her blue silk. So, there!"
"That is coming pretty straight, you must allow, Matilda," said her
mother.
"I don't believe it, for all that," said Matilda, though she looked
disconcerted. "There's some mistake."
"Oh, well, think so if you like."
"I am pretty safe in thinking so, anyhow," said Matilda coolly. "I
don't believe the Lord was ever angry with any one for thinking too
well of their neighbors, though he says some pretty hard things about
tale-bearers and folks that go about with slanders. But, for one thing,
I am glad to hear this story coming so straight. I shall know what to
say when I tell Miss Ackerman about it."
"But you mustn't say it came from me," said Miss Smithson, much alarmed.
"Why not?"
"Why not? Why, I wouldn't have you for the world; you would get me into
no end of trouble. Now, Matilda, don't you go mixing yourself up in the
business, I advise you. You'll only get into a scrape if you do."
Matilda made no answer, but her face as she began setting the table was
not promising.
"That's so," said Mrs. Jenkins. "Better let things alone."
"Ma, just suppose it was me?" said Matilda, with more emphasis than
grammar, and stopping her work. "Suppose I was in Eunice's place, and
she in mine, what would you want her to do? And folks are just as
likely to make up stories about us as they are about the Rikers."
"But I didn't make it up," said Miss Smithson; "I only said I heard it.
Of course I don't know anything about it of my own knowledge."
Matilda made no answer, but set down the bread with a force which
betokened determination of some sort.
"You won't make a fuss about it, will you, Matilda?"
"I shall do as I would be done by, Miss Smithson. Ma, are we going to
have any dinner to-day? I want to get through in time for afternoon
church."
Clearly, there was no more satisfaction to be got out of Matilda, and
Miss Smithson departed, wondering what had come over the girl, and
wishing heartily that she had held her tongue.
"I do wish that woman would keep away, at least on Sundays," said
Matilda.
"She is a gossiping thing, I know," said Mrs. Jenkins; "and I don't
mean to encourage her, but there it is—some folks don't need any
encouragement. But it is very queer that such a story should come from
the family."
"It is queer, but there may be some perfectly easy way to explain it."
"That's true," said Mrs. Jenkins. "I remember when I was quite a little
girl, and lived in Paperville, there was a story went the rounds that
our minister and his wife quarrelled dreadfully. People said they knew
it must be true, because old Miss Rundel, who cleaned house for Mrs.
Dr. Brown, who lived next door, heard Mrs. Anscomb say to her husband,—
"'Sandy, you are the very torment of my life, and I wish some one would
kill you.'
"You see, Mr. Anscomb's name was Alexander, and sometimes, when his
folks wanted to tease him, they called him 'Sandy.'
"Well, the matter was brought before the church, and when Mr. Anscomb
heard the story, he tried to keep a straight face, but he couldn't, and
finally he burst out laughing.
"'What do you mean by this levity, Brother Anscomb?' said old Dr.
Stratton very sternly.
"Then Mr. Anscomb, he tried to stop laughing, and says he, 'Brethren,
it was the cat! Celestine was provoked at him because he stole a piece
of cold chicken she had saved for my breakfast,' says he, 'and so she
said that; and I said,—
"'"Celestine, if any such thing should happen, you'd cry your eyes out."
"'And she said, "No, I shouldn't; I should be glad."
"'That was what Miss Rundel heard,' said he, making her a little bow.
'She got the words right, but she did not know to whom they applied.'
"And then the rest of the ministers and elders laughed as hard as he
did; and poor Miss Rundel was so ashamed she went into hysterics. Very
likely this may be something just as foolish, if one only knew it. But
I wonder Mrs. Riker should let Eunice be so patronized by Mrs. Ferarra;
I wouldn't stand it, I know."
"Where is the 'patronage'?" asked Matilda. "They ask Eunice there just
as they would any one else. She has taught Anita to crochet, and Anita
has taught her to work lace."
"Well, I believe in being independent," said Mrs. Jenkins; "I don't
want any one's help. I want to go my way, and let them go theirs."
"Yes, you do," said Matilda. "Why didn't you act on that rule when
Miss Smithson's little sister was sick last week, instead of running
yourself to death to take care of her, and sitting up nights, and all?
I believe in being independent too, so far as hanging on other folks
is concerned. I'd work my fingers off before I'd do like some folks we
know. But taking kindness in a neighborly way is very different from
that. I don't see why I should refuse to let Mrs. Ferarra do me a kind
turn because she is richer than I am, any more than I should refuse to
do a good turn to Mary Maloney because she is poorer."
"I don't know but that's the right way to look at it," said Mrs.
Jenkins, "but I was brought up to have very independent feelings. Pa
used to say, 'Malvinas don't you take any patronage from anybody.
You're just as good as any one, and nobody has got a right to order you
about or look down on you.' That was the principle he went on, but,
somehow, he was always in hot water. He was a church-member too, but he
was always thinking that the other members felt above him.
"'Brother Sanderson,' Mr. Anscomb said to him one day, 'I do think a
little Christian humility would be the best help for your trouble.'
"'I don't know what you mean, Mr. Anscomb,' said pa. 'I've got as much
"Christian humility" as anybody, but I don't mean to be looked down
upon by anybody,' says he."
Matilda laughed. "Yes, that's just the way with us," said she. "We're
miserable sinners, but we're just as good as the rest of the miserable
sinners, and better too.—Never mind the dishes, ma. I'll just put them
to soak, and wash them all up together to-night. Don't you mean to go
to church?"
"No, I think not; my ankle troubles me some. But you can go. I will say
for you, Matilda, that you have improved a great deal since you went
into Miss Ackerman's class. You're a great deal more thoughtful than
you used to be, and a real comfort to me. I don't believe in praising
folks to their face, but I will say that."
Matilda kissed her mother—rather an unusual sign of affection between
them—and having made everything neat and closed the blinds for her
mother's afternoon nap, she put on her hat and went out. She hesitated
a moment, and then, instead of going to church, she bent her steps
toward Mrs. Ackerman's.
Miss Ackerman did not usually go to church in the afternoon. She was
not very strong, and she found that morning service and the care of her
large Bible-class were all she was equal to. She was surprised, and a
little annoyed, when Sylvanus announced Matilda, but she received her
visitor with her usual cordiality, wondering all the time what could
have brought her, for Matilda had hitherto rather repelled her advances.
"Miss Ackerman, I want to talk to you about Eunice Riker," said
Matilda, coming to the point at once with that frank directness which
was one of her characteristics. "There is something going on which I
think you ought to know."
"You have touched the very subject I was thinking about, Matilda,"
said Miss Ackerman. "I could not but see this morning that there was
something wrong, and that some of the girls treated Eunice very badly.
Can you tell me anything about it?"
"I can tell you all about it, and that is just what I came for,"
replied Matilda; and she proceeded to relate the whole story just as
she had heard it from Miss Smithson. "I didn't know about coming to you
on Sunday," she concluded, "but I thought it was something like pulling
the ass or the sheep out of a pit on the Sabbath day."
"You were quite right," said Miss Ackerman. "It is lawful to do good on
the Sabbath day; and it is certainly doing good to try to vindicate the
fair fame of another. As to the yarn, that is very easily explained.
You will remember that it was of rather a peculiar color. We could
not match it in the city, but Mrs. Ray said she had a friend in
Philadelphia to whom she sometimes sent in such cases, and who, she had
no doubt, would be able to match the yarn. She did so, and succeeded
perfectly. My mother paid Mrs. Ray for the yarn, and Eunice made the
stockings. I presume that the worsted was some affair of her own, and
that the matter of the gold thimble will be explained quite as easily.
I will see Mrs. Ferarra the first thing in the morning, and we will
do our best to have the whole matter set right. You have acted with a
great deal of sense and prudence in this matter, Matilda."
"Ma didn't want me to have anything to do with it at first," said
Matilda, blushing with pleasure; "but I asked her how she would feel if
it was me instead of Eunice, and then she gave in directly. I expect
Miss Smithson will be ready to kill me, though."
"There will probably be no need of using her name at all," said Miss
Ackerman. "I will have her to work a day this week, and take the
opportunity to talk with her about the matter. She is a very worthy
woman in some respects, but she is such a gossip that people are afraid
of her."
"Well, I think it is real mean to talk and carry news from one house to
another, as a great many dressmakers do," said Matilda. "Seems to me if
I worked in families that way, I should feel as if I was trusted, and
as if I ought to be as careful not to steal their secrets as I would be
not to steal their silk and stuff."
"Quite right, my dear. I wish every one felt so; it would save a great
deal of mischief. Is there anything else to tell me."
"Not about that," said Matilda, looking down and twisting her
handkerchief, "but I thought I'd like to tell you something about
myself. Miss Ackerman, I know I've made you ever so much trouble in the
class, giggling and going on, but I hope I shall be different after
this. I have made up my mind to try to be a Christian!"
"My dear girl, how glad and thankful I am to hear you say so!" said
Miss Ackerman, equally delighted and surprised; for, as I have said
before, she had regarded Matilda as the least promising member of the
class. "That is a decision you will never regret. What led you to it?"
"I think it was a good many things," replied Matilda. "I couldn't keep
on studying the Gospels week after week without seeing how far I was
from what I ought to be, and how much I needed help too; for when I
tried to make myself good, I soon found I couldn't do that. Then I
thought I would let it all go and not bother myself; but I couldn't do
that, either. That story you told us about the man rescued from prison
stirred me up dreadfully. I knew I was just as bad off as he was, but
I could not bear to give in that I was as helpless. I was ever so much
interested in working for the box, and yet I didn't take any real
comfort in it, because I thought I was so unworthy. You remember at the
second meeting you quoted that text about the people who, when they
made their collection, first gave themselves to the Lord. (2 Cor. viii.
5.) So I thought it over and over, and then I said to myself, 'Matilda
Jenkins, that is the thing for you to do—just give yourself to the
Lord first of all.' And so I did; and oh, I have felt so peaceful and
contented ever since!"
"I do not doubt it, my dear. You have begun your Christian life in the
right way. Just give yourself up to your Saviour without any reserve—to
be what he would have you be, and do what he would have you do."
"And bear what he will have me bear; I suppose that is part of it too,"
said Matilda.
"Yes, and no small part. You seem to have been thinking a great deal,
Matilda."
"Well, I have, Miss Ackerman. I have a good deal of time to think, one
way and another, and I'm afraid I haven't always used it very well.
But since I began to work for the box, I have had more solemn thoughts
than ever I did in all my life before. Do you think I ought to make a
profession of religion, Miss Ackerman?"
"I think you should, Matilda, at the first proper opportunity. You will
find such a profession of the greatest use to you; and besides, you
know it is our duty to confess Christ before men."
"I don't want to do anything in a hurry," said Matilda. "Joining the
Church seems a very solemn thing. I should feel as if I ought to be
very good, very consistent; and maybe I shouldn't."
"You would be no more bound to be good then than you are now, Matilda.
Where do you read that God lays down one rule for church-members and
another for other people?"
"I don't know as he does, come to think of it," said Matilda. "I
suppose it is every one's duty to serve him the best they can."
"Exactly. You do not add to this duty by confessing him, and you cannot
release yourself from the obligation by refusing to confess him. You
are only adding another sin to all the rest."
"I see," said Matilda, "but I never thought of it in that way before.
As to being sure of my feelings, I don't know how I could be any surer
than I am now. If I know anything at all, I know that I mean to try to
be a Christian. Of course I don't expect I'm going to be perfect right
off. I know one has to fight one's way a great many times; at least,
that is the way it looks to me. I was talking to Louise Willard the
other day—she is a real good girl too, I think—and her mother said if
any one loved God as they ought to, they wouldn't have any of these
strivings against sin. Their inward life would be all peace, she said."
"What would be the use of all that armor St. Paul tells us to put on?"
said Miss Ackerman. "I cannot but believe that the Christian life must
be more or less one of warfare, and that we must be Christ's faithful
soldiers as well as servants to our lives' end."
"Then, I'll just leave this matter of Eunice to you and Mrs. Ferarra?"
said Matilda, rising to go.
"I think you might as well, but if we need your help we will call upon
you. God bless you, my dear! You have made my Sunday a very happy one."