There were too many pleasant things on hand for Judy's behaviour to
have any very lasting effect on Matilda's spirits, besides that a good
share of independence was one of her valuable characteristics. With the
new light of Monday morning, her heart leapt up anew at thought of all
the comfort preparing for Sarah and at her growing stock of means for
the same. She got out her purse and counted her money. With the new
gold piece there was a nice little sum; not enough indeed, but Matilda
had hopes of David, and hopes floating and various, that somehow what
was needful would be forthcoming when the time came.
The week was about half gone, when one afternoon David came to
Matilda's door and knocked. Matilda had shut herself up to write a
letter to Maria, and opened the door to David with a good deal of
surprise and pleasure. The second time, this was. He came in and sat
down.
"Where do you think I have been?" said he.
"To see Sarah?" said Matilda eagerly.
"You are quick," said David smiling. "No, I have not been to see Sarah
exactly; but I have been to see where she lives and all about her."
"Did you see where she lives?"
"Yes."
"David, isn't it horrid?"
"It's disgusting!" said David.
"But she can't help it," said Matilda, again eagerly.
"No, she can't, but somebody ought to help it. There ought not to be
any such horror possible in such a city as this."
"So I think. But _who_ ought to help it, David? How could anybody help
it?"
"There used to be a way among my people," said the boy proudly. "The
corners of the cornfields, and the last of the grapes on the vines, and
the dropped ears of corn, and the last beatings of the olives, were
commanded to be left for the poor."
"But there are no vines nor cornfields nor olives _here_," said Matilda.
"Nothing so good," replied David. "I believe people grow wicked in
cities."
"Then do you think it is wicked to build cities?"
"I don't know about that," said David; "that's another matter. Without
cities a great many good things would be impossible."
"Would they? what?" said Matilda.
"Well, commerce, you know; without great centres of commerce, there
could not be great commerce; and there would not be great fortunes
then; and without great for tunes there could not be the grand things
in music and painting and sculpture and architecture and books, that
there are now."
What "great centres of commerce" might be, Matilda could not tell; and
she did not like to ask David too many questions. She suddenly came out
with an objection.
"But Abraham did not live in a city."
David started, looked at her, and then laughed a little.
"Abraham! no, he did not; and he was a rich man; but _one_ rich man
here and there could not do those things I spoke of."
"Then, wouldn't it be better there should be no cities?" said Matilda.
"Better than what? Better than have cities with such dreadful poor
people? Can't have the good without the bad, I suppose."
"You said, people grow wicked in cities."
"Well, they do."
"Then ought people to build cities?"
"I don't know how the world would get on, at that rate," said David
smiling. "Anyhow the cities are built; and we are living in one; and
one corner house in it gives you and me as much as we can do."
"A single room in it, David."
"Yes. Well, you know you consulted a witch the other night."
"Did I?" said Matilda.
"The witch gave me orders to search into your matter. I have done it,
and told her what I had found; and she has commissioned me to deliver
to you--this."
So saying, David produced a little gold piece, the very mate to the one
Matilda had earned by telling her thoughts.
"O David!" Matilda exclaimed,--"O David!"
"Well?" said David smiling. "What?"
"I am getting so much!"
"You will want it."
"But I don't see how it should take such a _very_ great deal of money
just to do this little thing," said Matilda; and she went on to explain
Mr. Wharncliffe's propositions and helping agency. Before she had well
got through, Norton dashed in.
"Hallo! David here? All the better. Isn't she a jewel of a witch,
David?"
David looked up with a responsive twinkle in his eye; and Matilda asked
what he meant.
"Mean?" said Norton, "I mean the witch. You went to see the witch,
Pink; haven't you heard from her?"
"Yes! just this minute; but Norton, I don't know what you expected to
hear. What have you heard?"
"Glorious!" cried Norton, swinging his cap joyously. "We've got that
little room, Pink, for a greenhouse; and a stove in it for cold nights;
and shelves and benches and frames and all those things I'll put up my
self; and _then_ we'll have a show of flowers. Your hyacinths will do a
great deal better up there."
"Will they?" said Matilda. "They are doing very nicely here; and they
look nicely."
"Now we can do all we've a mind to, Pink. I'll have some amaryllis
roots right off; and japonicas, _japonicas_, Pink; and everything you
like. Geraniums, and Bovardias, and Azaleas, and Cacti; and Cyclamens;
and Cassia and Arbutillon. Fuchsias too, and what you like!"
"Why that little room will not hold everything," said Matilda. "Can't
you have some roses?"
"Roses? O yes, and carnations; everything you like. Yes, it will hold
everything. Lots of tulips, too."
"How about the money?" David asked.
"It don't take a fortune to stock a little greenhouse."
"You haven't got a fortune."
"I have got enough."
"Have anything left for other objects?"
"What objects?" said Norton. "I haven't but one object at present.
One's enough."
"But Matilda has an object too," David said smiling enough to show his
white teeth; "and her object will want some help, I'm thinking."
"What object?" said Norton.
"Don't you remember? I told you, Norton, about Sarah"--
"O _that!_" said Norton with a perceptible fall of his mental
thermometer. "That's all your visions, Pink; impracticable; fancy. The
idea of you, with your little purse, going into the mud of New York,
and thinking to dean the streets."
"Certainly," said David, "and so she wauls a little help from our
purses, don't you see?"
"David Bartholomew!" Norton burst out, "you know as well as I do, that
it is no sort of use to try that game. Just go look at the mud; it will
take all we could throw into it, and never shew."
"No," said David; "we could clear up a little corner, I think, if we
tried."
"_You!_" cried Norton. "Are _you_ at that game? _You_ turned soft
suddenly?"
"Do no harm, that I see," replied David composedly.
"These people aren't your people," said Norton.
"They are your people," said David.
"They are not! I have nothing to do with them, and it is no use--Davie
Bartholomew, you _know_ it's no use--to try to help them. Pink is so
tender-hearted, she wants to help the whole world; and it's all very
well for her to want it; but she can't; and I can't; and you can't."
"But we can help Sarah Staples," Matilda ventured.
"And then you may go on to help somebody else, and then somebody else;
and there's no end to it; only there's this end, that you'll always be
poor yourself and never be able to do anything you want to do."
Norton was unusually heated, and both his hearers were for a moment
silenced.
"You know that's the truth of it, Davie," he went on; "and it's no use
to encourage Pink to fancy she can comfort everybody that's in trouble,
and warm everybody that is cold, and feed everybody that is hungry,
because she just can't do it. You can tell her there is _no end_ to
that sort of thing if she once tries it on. Suppose we all went to work
at it. Just see where we would be. Where would be Pink's gold watch,
and her picture? and where would be her gold bracelet? and where would
my greenhouse be? And where would this house be, for that matter? and
the furniture in it? and how should we all dress? Your mother wouldn't
wear velvet dresses, that you like so much; and mine wouldn't wear that
flimsy muslin stuff that she likes so much; and grandmamma's lace shawl
would never have been mended, for it never would have been here to get
burnt. It's all a lot of nonsense, that's what it is."
"There is law about it, though," David began again gravely.
"Law?" Norton echoed.
"The law of my people."
"O what is it, David?" cried Matilda; while Norton was grumly silent.
He did not want to debate David's Jewish law with him. David gave the
words very readily.
"'When there is with thee any needy one of one of thy brethren, in one
of thy cities, in thy land which Jehovah thy God is giving to thee,
thou dost not harden thy heart, nor shut thy hand from thy needy
brother; for thou dost certainly open thy hand to him, and dost
certainly lend him sufficient for his lack which he lacketh.'"
"That says what the people would do--not what they _ought_ to do," said
Norton.
"I beg your pardon; it is a strong way of saying, in the Hebrew, what
they _must_ do. Listen. 'Thou dost certainly give to him, and thy heart
is not sad in thy giving to him, for because of this thing doth Jehovah
thy God bless thee in all thy works, and in every putting forth of
thine hand; because the needy one doth not cease out of the land,
therefore I am commanding thee, saying, Thou dost certainly open thy
hand to thy brother, to thy poor, and to thy needy one, in thy land.'"
Matilda was thinking of other words, which she dared not bring forward;
being in a part of her Bible which David did not like. Neither was it
necessary. Norton had got quite enough, she could see. He was in a
state of fume, privately.
"I am going to give one side of the green house to you," he said,
turning to Matilda. "Now you have got to think and find out what you
will put in it. I shall have the shelves and all ready by the end of
the week; and next week, Pink,--next week!--we must put the plants in;
because the winter is going on, you know."
The conclave broke up, to go upstairs and look at the new greenhouse.
Norton explained his arrangements; the oil-cloth he was going to put on
the floor, the rising banks of green shelves, the watering and
syringing and warming of the little place; till Matilda almost smelt
the geranium leaves before they were there.
"Now, Pink, what will you have on your side?"
"I can't give more than a dollar to it, Norton," said Matilda very
regretfully.
"A dollar! A _dollar_, Pink? A dollar will get you two or three little
geraniums. What's to become of the rest of your shelves?"
"I shall have to give them back to you, I'm afraid."
"You've got money, plenty."
"But I can't spend it for plants."
"Because you are going to throw it into the mud, Pink? O no, you'll not
do that. I'll give you a catalogue of plants, and you shall look it
over; and you will find a dollar won't do much, I can tell you. And
then you will see what you want."
He was as good as his word; and Matilda sipped her glass of water and
eat her sponge cake at tea time between the pages of a fascinating
pamphlet, which with the delights it offered almost took away her
breath, and quite took away the taste of the sponge cake. Norton looked
over her shoulder now and then, well pleased to see his charm working.
"_Yellow_ carnations?" cried Matilda.
"I don't like them best, though," said Norton. "There, _that_--La
purite--that's fine; and the striped ones, Pink; those double heads,
just as full as they can be, and just as sweet as they can be, and
brilliant carmine and white--those are what I like."
Matilda drew a long breath and turned a leaf.
"Violets!" she exclaimed.
"Do you like them?"
"Violets? Why, Norton, I don't like any thing better! I don't think I
do. Dear little sweet things! _they_ do not cost much?"
"No," said Norton, "they do not cost much; and they don't make much
show, neither."
"But they don't take much room."
"No; and you want things that _do_ take room, to fill your shelves. The
greenhouse ought to be all one mass of green and bloom all round."
Matilda heaved another sigh and turned another leaf.
"I don't know anything about tuberoses," she said. "Primroses? what are
they like? 'A thousand flowers often from one plant!' what are they
like, Norton?"
"Like?" said Norton. "I don't know what they are like."
"I'll tell you," said Judy, who as usual was pleasing herself with a
cup of strong coffee; "they are like buttercups come to town and grown
polished."
"They are not in the least like buttercups!" said Norton.
"That's what I said," replied Judy coolly; "they have left off their
country ways, and don't wear yellow dresses."
Matilda thought it was best to take no notice, so with another crumb of
sponge cake she turned over to the next flower in the catalogue.
"What are Bouvardias? I don't know anything about them."
"Of course," said Judy. "Not to be expected."
"Do you want to take care of your own flowers yourself, Pink?" inquired
Norton; "or do you mean to have me do it?"
"Why, I will do it, I suppose."
"Then you had better leave the Bouvardias to me. They are a little
particular about some things."
"Are they handsome?"
"Wait till you see. Splendid! You'll see, when I get them a going.
We'll have just a blaze of them."
"A blaze?" said Matilda. "What colour?"
"Flame colour, and scarlet, and white, and splendid crimson."
"Heliotrope. O I like heliotrope," Matilda went on.
"You can have those," said Norton. "They're sweet and easy. And we
must have them, of course, on one side or the other. Begonias--those
you might have, too."
"Hyacinths I have got," said Matilda.
"Yes, but you will want more, now that you have room for them."
"Azaleas--O azaleas are lovely," said Matilda. "They are showy too; and
you want a show, Norton."
"So do you, Pink."
"Well, I like azaleas," said Matilda. "Do they cost much?"
"Not so very. I guess you can have some."
"O what a geranium!" Matilda exclaimed. "'Lady James
Vick'--'seventy-five cents each'--but what a lovely colour, Norton! O I
like geraniums next best to roses, I believe."
"You must go to another catalogue for your roses," said Norton.
"That is beautiful! I never saw such a colour. These roses are better
yet."
"You can't have roses enough in bloom at once. We want other things to
help make up the blaze of colour there ought to be. But that's easy."
Matilda turned the catalogue over and over with a disturbed mind. It
seemed to her that to have such a little greenhouse as Norton proposed,
full of beauties, would be one of the most enjoyable things that could
be. Every new page of the catalogue, every new detail of Norton's plan,
tugged at her heart-strings. She wanted to get those plants and
flowers. A few delicate tea roses, some crimson blush roses, some pots
of delicious purple heliotropes with spicy breath; two or three--or
four--great double carnations; bunches of violets, sweetest of all; she
wanted these! Then some azaleas, larger of course, to fill up the
shelves and make a beautiful show of colour, as Norton desired. Her
imagination went over and over the catalogue, always picking these out
for her choice; and then imagination took them to the little room
upstairs, which was going to be such a lovely little greenhouse, and
saw them there and almost smelt their fragrance. It would be so
pleasant to take care of them; she fancied herself watering them and
dressing them, picking off the dead leaves and tying up the long
wreaths of vines, and putting flowers into Mrs. Laval's stem glass for
her dressing table. But what use? she had not the money to buy the
plants, if she went on with her plans for Sarah's behoof; no counting
nor calculating could come to any other conclusion. She thought of it
by day and she thought of it by night; and the more she thought, the
more her desires grew. Then too, the wish to please Norton was a very
serious element in her cogitations. To disappoint him by utterly
failing to do all he wished and counted upon from her, was very hard to
do and very disagreeable to face. But Sarah? Matilda could not change
her line of action, nor divert more than one dollar from the fund saved
for her benefit. One dollar, Matilda thought, might be given for
flowers; but what would one dollar be worth, with all one side of the
little greenhouse to be filled.
It is not easy to tell, how much trouble all this question gave
Matilda. She thought it was quite strange and notable, that just when
she was trying to accomplish so right a thing as the helping of that
poor family in the cellar, this temptation of flowers should come up to
make it hard. In one of her windows stood three little pots, in which
three hyacinths were already bursting through the brown earth and
showing little stout green points of leaf buds which promised nicely
for other buds by and by. They had been a delight to Matilda's heart
only a week ago; now, it seemed as if that vision of heliotropes and
roses and geraniums had somehow swallowed them up.
When she went next to Sunday school, however, and saw Sarah's meek,
patient face, Matilda was very much astonished at herself, and not a
little ashamed. She sat next Sarah in the class, and could see without
seeming to see, how thin her dress was and how limp it was, as if she
had not enough petticoats under it to keep her warm. There was a patch
too in one place. And Sarah's shawl was a very poor wrap alongside of
the well covered shoulders under Matilda's thick coat. "No gloves!"
said Matilda to herself, as her eye glanced from her own very handsome
and warm ones; "how can she bear it? I wonder how it makes her feel, to
see mine? Another time I'll wear an older pair." But the contrast went
home to Matilda's heart. Why should she have so many good things, and
Sarah so few? and the words David had quoted from the Hebrew Scriptures
came back to her.
With an odd feeling as if there were wrong done for which she was
somehow chargeable, after the lesson was done and school dismissed she
asked Sarah "how she was?" The girl's meek eye brightened a little as
she answered that she was well.
"But you are hoarse," said Matilda. "You have got cold."
"O I often do, in the winter time," said Sarah. "I don't think anything
of it."
And that slight shawl and thin dress! Matilda's heart gave some painful
blows to her conscience.
"I didn't see you at your place the other day," she went on.
"That was Thursday," said Sarah. "No; I was too bad Thursday. I didn't
go out."
So she staid at home to nurse her cold, in that cellar room with the
mud floor. What sort of comfort could be had there? or what good of
nursing? Matilda did not wonder that the street corner was quite as
pleasant and nearly as profitable. And the thought of Sarah's gentle
pale face as she said those words so went home to her heart, that she
was crying half the way home; tears of sorrow and sympathy running down
her face, as fast as she wiped them away.
That same evening, at tea-time, Norton asked if she had made up her
list of plants for the greenhouse? Matilda said no.
"We shall want them, now, Pink. By Wednesday I shall have the staging
ready; and the sooner we get it filled the better."
"O but, dear Norton," said Matilda, "I am very sorry to disappoint you;
but I cannot take the money."
"Can't take what money?"
"The money to buy those plants. I would like them; but I cannot."
"But you were making your list," said Norton.
"No, I wasn't. I was only thinking what I would _like_ to have."
"And you are not going to come into the greenhouse at all?"
That was more than Matilda had counted upon; the tears started to her
eyes; but she only said,--
"I cannot get the plants, Norton;" and she said it steadily.
"You are going into that ridiculous charitable concern?"
Matilda was beyond answering just then; she kept silence.
"Let _me_ into your greenhouse, Norton," said Judy.
"Yes; fine work you would make there," Norton replied.
"Indeed I would. I'll fill my shelves with just the finest things we
can get; camellias, if you like; and the newest geraniums, and
everything."
"You wouldn't take care of them if you had them."
"Well, you would," said Judy; "and it comes to the same thing."
"Pink," said Norton, "I must have my shelves full; and I can't do it
all. If you won't come into the greenhouse, I shall let Judy come."
"Well, Norton," said Matilda steadily. "If you knew what I know, and if
you had seen what I have seen, you wouldn't wonder at me; and I almost
think you would help me."
"You'll grow wiser," said Norton, "when you have had your fingers
burned a few times."
The tone of cool indifference to her subjects of interest, of slight
displeasure at her preferring them to his, went to Matilda's heart. So
also it tried her greatly, to see for the rest of the evening Norton
and Judy in high confabulation over the catalogues and the greenhouse.
She felt shut out from it, and a little from Norton himself. It was
hard to bear; and once and again she could not help the tears rising to
her eyes. She got rid of them, she thought, cleverly, without any one
being the wiser; but David Bartholomew had marked it all. He had not
said a word, however; and Matilda went early up to bed; marvelling anew
that it should be so difficult to do right. Why must this greenhouse
business come up just at this moment?
She had a week to think about it and grieve over it. The boys were
going to school again now, and she saw but little of them. Judy had
masters and mistresses, and was herself much out of sight. Matilda was
to be under Norton's tutelage, it had been agreed; and accordingly he
had put certain books in her hands and pointed out certain tasks; and
Matilda laid hold of them with great zeal. With so much, indeed, that
difficulties, if there were any, disappeared; and Norton had little to
do beyond finding out that she was, as he expressed it, "all right,"
and giving her new work for the next day. So went the work; very busy,
and very happy too; only for Matilda's being shut out from greenhouse
pleasures and Judy taken into Norton's partnership.