It was a few nights after this, that the children were amusing
themselves in the same little reception room. Esther Francis was with
them, and the elders were with company in the drawing-room. The young
ones had it all their own way; they had taken tea together in what
Norton declared to be a very jolly style; and now in a circle of
sociable dimensions, that is, very much drawn together, they were
talking over a great variety of things. All except David; he hardly
said anything; he looked dark and jaded; nevertheless he listened to
what was going on.
"I know one thing," said Norton; "I must be off to the country pretty
soon."
"School term of no consequence"--said David.
"None at all. You see, bulbs keep no account with schoolmasters; the
only account they keep is with the sun; and how they do that when the
sun don't shew himself, passes me. It's one of the queer things."
"Find a good many of them, Norton?" asked Esther smiling.
"Queer things? Lots! Don't you?"
"Well, I don't know. There are some queer people."
"_Some_. Just a few, I should think there were," said Norton. "Enough
to keep one from going to sleep with sameness."
"Well, but I don't find so many," said Esther. "Am I queer?"
"Not a bit of it?"
"You speak as if it was an honour to be queer," said the young lady,
bridling her pretty head.
"An honour? I don't know about that," said Norton. "It certainly may be
said to be a--distinction."
"Who is queer?" said Esther. "You?"
"Not he," said David.
"You know best," said Norton, shaking his curly head.
"He thinks he has so much else to distinguish him," said Judy, "he can
do without that."
"Not _your_ case," said Norton, politely nodding at her.
"Don't depend upon your word," said Judy scornfully.
"Not at all," rejoined Norton; "it is open to the most hasty observer."
"Is Matilda queer?" Esther asked laughing.
"She'd never let the world go to sleep," said Norton contentedly; "at
least, not till all could sleep comfortably."
They laughed at that, and Matilda as much as anybody.
"But what did you mean, Norton," she said, "about the bulbs and the
country?"
"Just what I said. It's the most mysterious thing, the way the roots
down in the earth know when it is time for them to send up their green
shoots. They will do it, too, and when things aren't ready for them by
any means above ground. Spring may be ever so late, and the earth hard
packed with frost, and snow and clouds making you believe it is winter
yet; and there will come the little green shoots pushing up their heads
and telling you _they_ know what time of year it is, better than you
do. How they get up through the frozen earth is more than I know. I
tell you, _they_ are queer."
"Then you mean something good by being queer, Norton," Matilda said.
"Don't know about that; they are ahead of the year, you see, and that
don't always do. They have a hard time of it, sometimes."
"But are you going up to see them?"
"Yes; pretty soon. The coverings must be taken off the beds, you see;
and I must look after it."
"I am so glad spring is come again!" said Esther.
"What for, you?" said Norton. "You don't make garden."
"No; but I can eat strawberries."
"Strawberries! O ho, that's it. That's what you want spring for."
"I am sure strawberries are good, Norton," said Matilda. "Do you
remember how you and I eat strawberries on the bank last summer?--and
made lists?"
Norton gave her a very intelligent glance of acknowledgment.
"Lists of what?" Judy asked.
"Things we were going to have for tea," Norton answered coolly.
"O no, Norton--they were not," said Matilda.
"Well, it was something in the housekeeping department."
"Housekeeping!" cried Esther.
"What is strange in that?" inquired Norton coolly.
"Why you are rather young, you and Matilda, to set up housekeeping."
"Rather," said Norton; "so it was somebody else, you see."
"O it was for somebody else?" said Esther.
"When are you going, Norton?" Matilda asked eagerly.
"Pretty soon; in a week or two more; just as soon as we have a few more
spring days."
"O how nice the spring days are!" said Matilda. "I am so glad they are
come again."
"For the strawberries?" Esther asked archly.
"O no, not the strawberries; but it is so pleasant to see the green
grass again, and the dandelions."
"Dandelions!" exclaimed Judy.
"Yes indeed; and the locust blossoms; and the cows going to pasture;
and yellow butterflies skimming about; and the nice warm days; and
pinks and roses."
"And croquet--" said Norton.
"O croquet is delicious!" said Esther.
"_I_ am glad, because I like the driving," said Norton. "It is better
than all the Central Parks in the world. And the fishing is jolly, too;
when you have good sport. It's jolly altogether, at Shadywalk."
"But Norton, the house is shut up," said Matilda.
"What about it?"
"What will you do? you can't manage all alone."
"Go to Kepple's. That's easy."
"How long will you stay?"
"Two or three days. I guess I'll take the Easter holidays--that's just
the thing."
What was said next for a few minutes, Matilda did not hear; she was
musing so intently; then she broke out,--
"O Norton! I wonder if I might go with you?"
"You? That _would_ be jolly," said Norton.
"I could go to Mr. Richmond's, you know; and then we could see all
about our tulip and hyacinth beds; and it would be _so_ pleasant!"
"Well; suppose you do. I'm agreed."
"Do you think mamma would like it?"
"We'll coax her into thinking it's a splendid plan," said Norton; "and
that's what it is."
Matilda's eye went furtively over to David; he met it, but she could
not tell what he thought. Hope and pleasure made her cheeks flush high.
Judy tossed her head.
"Why don't you ask me?" she said.
"I haven't asked anybody yet," said Norton.
"I should like to go too. Will you take me?"
"Would you like to say what you would do if you got there?"
"I don't know!" laughed Judy.
"I do. All the mischief you could manage. No, thank you. I should have
to sit next you at the hotel table."
"What harm would that do?" said Esther, laughing.
"I should find mustard in my coffee and pepper in my pudding sauce,"
said Norton. "No harm, only rather spoils the coffee and rather hurts
the pudding sauce."
Matilda looked suddenly at Norton, and so did Judy, but they saw he was
only speaking at random and did not know how close he was coming to the
truth. Then the two pairs of eyes met involuntarily. Judy laughed
carelessly.
"I'll go, if you go," she said to Norton. "At least, if Matilda goes,
I'll go."
This time Matilda's and David's eyes met. He smiled, and she took
comfort.
As soon as a good opportunity could be found, the plan was broached to
Mrs. Laval, and urged by both her children. She demurred a little; but
finally consented, on the strength of Norton's plea that it would do
Matilda good. From this time the days were full of delightful hope and
preparation. Only David lay on Matilda's thoughts with a weight of care
and longing. Once she caught an opportunity, when they were alone, to
seize his hand and whisper, "Oh David, can't you come too, and see Mr.
Richmond?" And he had answered very gravely that he did not know; he
would see.
Easter fell this year rather late in April; late, that is, for Easter.
Schools were dismissed on Thursday; and Thursday afternoon Matilda and
Norton were to take the cars for Shadywalk. She could not say another
word to David, or about him; she made her happy preparations with a
secret unsatisfied longing running through them all. Judy had made an
earnest endeavour to be one of the party; and Matilda did not know how,
but the endeavour had failed. And now the early dinner was eaten, her
little travelling bag was packed, the carriage was at the door, good
byes were said, and Matilda got into the carriage. At that exact minute
David came out of the house with _his_ travelling bag in hand, and in a
minute more the house door was shut, so was the carriage door, and they
were all three rolling off towards the Station.
"O David, I'm so glad!" burst from Matilda. "How did you manage it?"
"Like himself," said Norton; "kept his own counsel and had his own way.
It's a good thing to be Davy Bartholomew."
"I don't know about that," said David.
"Don't you? Never heard a doubt on that subject expressed before. But
anyhow, it's jolly to have you along, Davy. Why you've never seen
Shadywalk, nor Briery Bank."
Matilda smiled a very bright and expressive smile at David which said,
"nor Mr. Richmond either." The smile was so genial and glad and winsome
that it cheated David out of some part of his gloom; or perhaps he
thought it unworthy to shew it before his kind little companion. He
brightened up, and talked about the things that were interesting her
and Norton; and at the station behaved like the manly boy he was;
getting tickets and taking care of Matilda and finding a good place in
the cars where they could all sit together. The moment was so full of
joy to Matilda that it made her sober. Going to see her old haunts and
old friends was a great deal of itself; going on an expedition with
Norton was delightsome; but that David should really be going too, to
see Mr. Richmond, almost took away her breath with gladness. The slow
movement of the cars, beginning to roll away from the station, was
accompanied by a perfect leap and bound of her little heart making an
aerial flight on the instant to the end of the journey.
The end of the journey, however, had to be reached by the usual
patient, or impatient, stages. Patient in this case, to Matilda. She
was so happy that she enjoyed every foot of the way. The spring
sunlight on the river it was quite delightful to see again; the
different stations on the road were passed with curious recollections
of the last time, and comparisons of herself now and herself then. The
evening fell by the time they reached Poughkeepsie; and shadowy visions
of Maria seemed to occupy all the place while the train stopped there.
Poor Maria! Matilda was glad to have the cars move on, since she could
get no nearer than visions. Then it grew dark; and she sat musing and
dreaming pleasant dreams, till the station of Shadywalk was whistled
for.
The old omnibus was in waiting, as usual, and it happened that no other
passenger occupied it to-night except their three selves and one cosy
old lady, who "didn't count," Norton said. It was dark; they could not
see the landscape.
"Briery Bank ought to be worth a good deal," said David, "when it takes
so long to reach it."
"So it is," said Norton.
"O it's lovely, David!" cried Matilda. "Not so much now, though, when
the leaves are not out."
"Are you going to the minister's to-night?"
"To be sure I am. Mr. Richmond would be very much surprised if I went
anywhere else."
"Well, when I get the beds uncovered, Pink, I'll come for you; and we
can see what we will do."
"You'll come with me to-night, Norton?"
"I'll let Davy see you there, while I make arrangements."
"What arrangements? O come now, Norton. Mr. Richmond will like to see
you."
"He can wait till to-morrow, I dare say," replied Norton. "Anyhow, I
can. You will be enough for to-night."
"What sort of a man is the one you are talking of?" David asked Norton.
"He's a brick," said Norton, and began to whistle; then interrupted
himself. "But he is Pink's friend, you understand, much more than mine."
"Some old tutor of yours?" said David smiling.
"Old! not exactly. Nor a tutor neither, that ever I heard; though he
does teach folks, or tries to. No, you're out, Davy. I tell you, he's a
brick."
"O we're going over the bridge now, Norton!" Matilda exclaimed. "We're
almost there. Look! I can see lights, can't I?"
There was no question about it in a few minutes more. Norton got out at
the Shadywalk hotel; and the omnibus lumbered on through Butternut
Street to the parsonage gate and drew up at last before the old brown
door. But it was too dark to see colours. Indeed David had some
difficulty in finding the knocker; and meanwhile the omnibus lumbered
off, while they were not attending. David knocked and knocked again.
Matilda was trembling with delight.
"There's nobody at home," said David. "It is all dark."
But at that instant a step was heard in the hall, and the door was
opened. A little light that came from within a door somewhere beyond
revealed nothing except the outline of a figure.
"Who is it?" said a voice. "My lamp's gone out; I guess it wants a new
wick. Who's here?"
"Don't you know me, Miss Redwood?" said Matilda's voice, quivering with
pleasure.
"Don't know anybody without I see 'em. I ain't called to guess who you
be, as I know. Come in, if you want to, and tell your errand. Is it me
or the minister you're after?"
"Miss Redwood, it's Matilda Laval. And I'm so glad to see you!" said
Matilda, waiving further recognition and throwing her arms round the
housekeeper's neck. "O I'm so glad to see you! Is Mr. Richmond at home?"
"Tilly Englefield!" exclaimed the housekeeper in her turn. "Wherever
did the child come from? Mr. Richmond?--no, he ain't to home yet, but
he will be directly. Come in, child, and take off your things. Who's
this other one?"
"My cousin David Bartholomew, Miss Redwood. O David, come in! Don't go,
till Mr. Richmond comes."
"Yes, come right in," said Miss Redwood heartily. "You're just in time
for tea; for the minister's been out as usual all the afternoon; he had
to ride to Suffield, and he ain't home yet. Come right in here."
She drew Matilda, and David followed, into the little dining room,
where the lamp shone and the tea table stood looking very hospitable.
David made some proposition of going back to the hotel and Norton; but
Matilda was very urgent that he should not, and Miss Redwood very
positive on the same subject; and to Matilda's surprise David made no
great opposition. He sat down quietly enough. Meanwhile the housekeeper
took off Matilda's wrappings and examined her with her eyes.
"La! it _does_ look natural to see you!" she broke out. "But you ain't
so little as you was; and, my!--but I suppose it's New York."
"What's New York?" inquired Matilda laughing.
"Well, 'taint so easy to tell. I don't know myself. But it's all over
you, from the hair of your head down to the soles of your boots. You
ain't the same you was."
"Yes, I am, Miss Redwood; just the same!"
"La, child, you don't _feel_ that you've growed, do you? Folks grow
in'ardly and out'ardly; and they change, too, in'ardly and out'ardly;
and it's other folks that see it, not them."
"But how do you think I'm changed, Miss Redwood? I am sure you're
mistaken."
The housekeeper gave another benevolent, keen look at her, smiling a
little, and then went off into her pantry without answering.
"It's all right I made gingerbread to-day," she said, coming out with a
beautiful loaf of that article. "Have you had any dinner? I'll be bound
you'd like some beef and eggs. Wait a bit, and you shall have it. Mr.
Richmond will be all ready for it too, after his ride. I reckon you
hain't much to do with handling of spiders now?" This with a sidelong
glance at Matilda.
"No, Miss Redwood; I haven't time for such things."
"How do ye expect to keep house one o' these days, if you don't know
how?"
"That's a great way off," said Matilda smiling.
"Just as it happens," said the housekeeper. "You're eleven or twelve
this summer; which is it? and you won't be any wiser in the kitchen
just by growing older in the parlour."
"I know some things now, Miss Redwood."
"La, child, knowledge ain't all; it's practice; and you ain't in the
way to practise much, I can see. That's the fashion now-a-days; young
heads filled full and clever, maybe; and hands as empty and useless as
ever hands kin be. Now I don't believe, for my part, that our hands was
given us to do nothin'."
"O no, nor I," said Matilda.
"Well, then, what be your hands learning? See if I'm wrong."
Matilda cast about how to answer, for in truth her hands had got no new
skill in the past months, although the old skill had come in play very
conveniently. While she hesitated, came the welcome sound of the
opening and closing front door. Mr. Richmond was returned. His steps
went however first upstairs, and then came down and went into the
study. Miss Redwood had disappeared and was getting her beef ready in
the kitchen. Matilda could wait no longer. Taking David's hand and
gently persuading him to allow of her leading, she went to the study
door and knocked.
Mr. Richmond had just made the fire blaze up; so they had light to see
each other by. David stood by and watched the greeting; it was very
glad and affectionate, he saw, on both sides, with a certain tender
confidence that impressed him. He was surprised also to see that Mr.
Richmond was so young a man and so handsome a man; and when the
brilliant eyes were turned on himself he was quite susceptible to their
fascination. Matilda lost no time.
"David Bartholomew, Mr. Richmond; one of my new cousins, you know. And
Mr. Richmond,--David knows about the Messiah in the Old Testament, and
he wants to know if the Messiah is Jesus; and so I wanted him to see
you, because you could tell him; and so I got him to come with me."
If David's shyness was at all disturbed by this speech, it was entirely
soothed again by Mr. Richmond's reception of it, and of him. The
genial, frank clasp of his hand, the kindly, free glance of the blue
eyes, quite won David, as it was apt to win everybody; and in a minute
more he found himself sitting at his ease in this strange house,
perfectly contented to be then, and interested to watch Matilda's
intercourse with her old friend and her pleasure in it. There was time
for but little, however, before Miss Redwood's activity had got the
"beef and eggs" and all the rest of the tea-table in a state of
readiness, and her call summoned them into the other room. David made a
little demur about staying, instantly overruled both by Mr. Richmond
and Matilda, and he sat down with the rest. And if he said little, the
other three tongues were busy enough.
"And how do you like New York?" inquired the housekeeper. Matilda's
answer was very unqualified.
"'Tain't no better a place than this, is it?" the lady asked rather
defiantly.
"It is a larger place, Miss Redwood," said the minister.
"Ain't Shadywalk big enough for a little mite of a thing like her?"
"I don't know," said the minister. "'Big enough' depends upon what she
wants, or what anybody wants. I knew a man once who said he had seen
everything in the world there was to be seen, and he was quite at a
loss what to do with himself. You perceive the world was not 'big
enough' for him. And another man once wrote, 'My _mind_ to me a kingdom
is.' Difference of taste, you see."
"That first fellow thought his head was only made to set his eyes in, I
s'pose," said the housekeeper dryly.
"Seemed to be all the use he had for it," said the minister.
"But that other man," said Matilda,--"was he contented with himself all
alone, and wanted nothing else?"
"I hope not," said Mr. Richmond smiling. "That's a new view of the
case. Your king David hit the truth more surely," he went on addressing
David, "when he said, 'The Lord is the portion of my inheritance.'"
David's eye brightened; but then he said,
"I have read the words, but I never understood exactly what he meant."
"Your people, you remember, on taking possession of the promised land,
had it divided to them by lot; each tribe and family took its share as
it was portioned out to them by Joshua."
"Yes, I know," David answered.
"So from that time each family had its own inalienable lands, which
were the inheritance of that family; its portion and riches; for the
Hebrews were not in those days a commercial people."
David assented, looking a little surprised.
"What should a man mean, who declared, disregarding all this, that his
portion and inheritance was the Lord himself?"
The boy's keen, intelligent eyes looked deep into the intent blue ones
regarding him.
"Sir, I do not know," he said at length. "Was it, that he expected the
Highest would give him greater possessions?"
"Notice, he says not his inheritance is _from_ the Lord, but is the
Lord himself."
"I don't understand it," said David.
"In another place, when he was nearly done with earthly possessions, he
says again, 'My flesh and my heart faileth; but God is the strength of
my heart and my portion for ever.' It is an inheritance that exists
beyond time, you see."
"I don't understand it, sir," David repeated.
"And in that sixteenth psalm he goes on to declare his content in his
portion, in that it is not of earth. 'The lines are fallen unto me in
pleasant places; yea, I have a goodly heritage.' There is a word in the
New Testament that explains it," Mr. Richmond went on, looking keenly
at David; "a word of one who was in the same case; and he says of the
children of God, 'And if children, then heirs; heirs of God, and joint
heirs with Messiah.'"
David started and shivered, as if a nerve had suddenly been touched;
but Mr. Richmond went on to something else, as if he had not observed
it. All through supper time he was so gentle, pleasant, and spirited
too in his talk, that the boy who was unaccustomed to such society felt
the charm holding him; and Matilda who had not known it for long, felt
like a flower opening to the sunshine.