David was busy with his books all the evening, and Matilda, however
much she wished for it, could get no talk with him. The opportunity did
not come before Sunday evening, when they were all at tea in the little
reception room. Then David took his cup and his piece of cake and came
to Matilda's side and sat down.
"Dr. Berger has been to see that little boy," he said.
"Has he! And what does he say?"
"Says nothing ails him but want."
"Want?" Matilda repeated.
"Want, of everything. Specially, want of food--food good for anything;
and of air."
"Want of air!" cried Matilda. "I don't wonder at it. I felt as if I
should be unable to breathe if we staid there much longer. And I was
strong and well. Just think, to anybody sick!--"
"He says, if he could be taken into the country he would begin to get
well immediately; and he asked Mrs. Binn if she had friends anywhere
out of the city."
"What did she say?"
"Said her father and mother and her aunt were all dead long ago; and
that he hadn't a friend in the city or out of it. And she gave up work
then for a minute or two, and sat down with her apron over her head;
the only time I have seen her stop work at all. I think it was her
apron, but I don't know; she hid her face in something. But she didn't
cry, Matilda; not a drop."
"What can we do, David?"
"I took him some grapes, you know."
"Yes. Could he eat them?"
"Had no sort of difficulty about that."
"What can we do, David?" Matilda repeated anxiously.
"I have thought of this. We might pay the woman for a week or two as
much as she gets by her washing and let her take him into her room and
put down her fire and make him comfortable. She cannot open her window;
but we can send them a decent bed and some clean coverings and some
good things to feed the fellow with. I spoke to Mrs. Binn about giving
up her washing; she said she couldn't afford to lose her customers. She
might manage it for a week or so, though."
"And then? A week or two would not cure him, David?"
"I doubt if any time would, in that air. Perhaps we can get him out
into the country by the end of the week or two."
"Oh, David!"--Matilda exclaimed after a few minutes of perplexed
thinking. What more she would have said was cut short. They had been
speaking very low, but those last two words had come out with a little
energy, and Judy caught them up.
"O David, what? You have been plotting mischief long enough, you two;
what are you up to? Grandmamma, make them tell. Matilda is making a
fool of David. I wish you'd stop it."
David looked up and over towards Mrs. Lloyd with a frank smile.
"He don't look much like it," said the old lady composedly. "What are
you afraid of, Judy?"
"Grandmamma, the whole house is getting on end," said the young lady,
who was not always choice in the use of her words. "David and Matilda
are busy contriving how to make a big hole in the bottom of their two
purses that will let out the money easy; and Norton's hair is bristling
already with fear."
"Fear of what, you goose?" said Norton in towering displeasure. "What's
their money to me?"
"I thought you wanted it," said Judy coolly.
"Come here, Norton," said David; "come over here and let her alone.
What _are_ you afraid of, old fellow? Come! smooth out your wrinkles
and let us know."
"I don't know anything about it," said Norton distantly. "You and
Matilda went on an errand yesterday that lets anybody guess what you
are up to to-day."
"Guess," said David. "Come, sit down here and guess."
"You are doing what Judy says."
"Holes in purses?" said David. "Go on; what do you think we are making
the holes with?"
"Ridiculous stories about poor folks."
"I'll let you judge how ridiculous they are," said David; and he told
about the sick boy and Mrs. Binn's six foot apartment. Norton's face
would not unbend.
"Is that the only sick child in New York?" he asked.
"I am afraid not."
"Then what are you going to do about the others?"
"Help as many of them as ever I can," David answered gravely.
"Go on, and your money will go too. That's what I said," Norton
responded. "Matilda will be only too glad to help you and throw in all
her pennies."
"How would you like to be sick, old fellow, with no lemons at hand, and
no grapes?"
"And no wine, Norton, and no sago, and no clean sheets? I know who
likes to have his bed changed often. And no cups of tea, and soda
biscuit, and blancmange, and jelly, and nice slices of toast."
"What _do_ they have?" Norton asked with some curiosity.
"Some coarse mush; now and then a piece of dry bread; and water. Not
ice water, Norton; no ice gets up there."
"Bread and water," said Norton, summing up.
"And to lie in a corner of the entry, Norton, under the roof, because
there is no room for you in the only room they have; and no open window
ever; and oh, such want of it!"
"Look here!" exclaimed Norton, seizing upon a diversion, "how came you,
Davy, to take Pink to such a place? I just want to know."
"Not a place for a Pink, I acknowledge," said David. "I didn't know
myself, Norton, till I got there, what sort of a place it was; or she
would not have gone."
"Upon my word!" said Norton. "This is what your goodness is up to.
Mamma--"
"Hush," said David good-humouredly; "she is not going there again, I
tell you. Come here and sit down, and tell us what you think ought to
be done about such a case."
"The city ought to manage it," said Norton grumly, sitting down however.
"How shall we get the city to manage it?"
"I don't know. Davy Bartholomew! you'll never make me understand that
it is our business to look up all the people that want something or
other and give them all they want until our own hands are empty."
"You are dealing in generals," said David smiling. "Come back to the
particular case. What ought we to do about this?"
"How came you to know of it?"
"We were told."
"Well--there must be poor people in the world," said Norton; "there
always were and there always will be."
"I suppose so. And the question is, what ought we to do for them?"
"You can't do much," said Norton. "You can make yourself poor, easy
enough. Then you'll expect Judy and me to take care of _you_."
"Are you afraid of that, Norton?" said Matilda laughingly.
"No, Pink, I am not," said Norton; "but you and Davy are just in the
way to get into trouble. There's no bottom to New York mud."
"Norton," said David, "will you grant that we ought to do in this
matter as the word of God says?"
"It don't say we are to make fools of ourselves," Norton responded.
"Yes it does," said Matilda quickly. Both her hearers looked at her.
"I don't believe it," said Norton.
"Where?" asked David.
"I can't tell,--but I know it's there. If I had that little reference
Bible, Davy;--it's up in your room--"
"Yes, I can get it," said David; "but wouldn't a Concordance be better
for you? I'll fetch one."
"What are you talking about, children?" said Mrs. Bartholomew, as David
went out of the room.
"We have got into a knot, aunt Judith," said Norton. "Don't _you_ get
in, or we shall never get out."
"_Do_ get in, mamma," urged Judy, "or David will be tied up. Matilda
holding one end of the string, and Norton the other, between them
they'll fix him."
"David is able to cut his own knots, or other people's," said Mrs.
Bartholomew coolly. "What is all this about, David?"
David had come back in a minute with the Concordance, which he handed
to Matilda. "It's a question of Scripture, mamma," he answered. Mrs.
Bartholomew said "Oh!"--and turned away. But Mrs. Lloyd watched the
group. Matilda was earnestly searching in the pages of the Concordance;
David sat waiting, with a little curiosity; Norton with impatient
defiance. Matilda was busy for some minutes with one page and another;
then, "Here it is!" she said; and looked up. She saw that Mrs. Lloyd's
attention was fixed, and that Mrs. Laval also was listening. She
glanced at Norton, then met David's eyes; and then bent her head over
her book and read.
"'Let no man deceive himself. If any man among you seemeth to be wise
in this world, let him become a fool, that he may be wise. For the
wisdom of this world is foolishness with God.' And then again in the
next chapter--'We are fools for Christ's sake.'"
How would her various hearers take the words? She would not look up to
see.
"I am content," said David.
"With what, Davy my dear?" asked his aunt.
"Content to be a fool for Christ's sake, aunt Zara."
"Is there any necessity?" she asked gently.
"Seems so," said David smiling. "At least, it seems that one must be
judged so, aunt Zara."
"Can't it be avoided by judicious action, Davy?"
"Come and see, aunt Zara. Draw up here and join our consultation," said
the boy, with a certain sweet gracefulness which won her to do just
what he asked. She took a chair nearer the group.
"The question is, aunt Zara, what we ought to do for certain poor
creatures that we know of."
"Not for _them_," burst in Norton, interrupting, "but for all the rest.
There is no end to the poor creatures! _I_ say, begin as you are to go
on."
"We must take things as we find them," said David. "There is no end to
the poor creatures; so the question is a big one."
"What _is_ the question?" said Mrs. Laval.
In answer to which, David told the story of Mrs. Binn and Josh.
"There are hundreds of such people!" said Norton.
"Aunt Zara," said David, "I wanted Norton to agree to submit the
question to the Bible. Isn't that fair?"
"Ye-s," said Mrs. Laval cautiously; "I suppose it is. But, my dear
Davy, we shouldn't do anything extravagant; the Bible does not require
that."
"Shall we see what it does require?"
"Yes; go on," said Mrs. Lloyd. "Let us hear what you children can find
about it."
"Among my people it was the law,"--David began, but his utterance of
the words "my people" was no longer lofty; rather tender and
subdued;--"it was the law, 'When thou dost complete to tithe all the
tithe of thine increase in the third year, the year of the tithe, then
thou hast given it to the Levite, to the sojourner, to the fatherless,
and to the widow, and they have eaten within thy gates and been
satisfied;' and in the feast of booths, the feast of ingathering, the
sojourner, the fatherless and the widow were to share in the rejoicing."
"The tithe is the tenth," remarked Mrs. Laval.
"We always give to all the charitable societies," said Mrs.
Bartholomew; "always."
"Read, Matilda," said David. "I see you are ready." And Matilda read.
"'Therefore all things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you,
do ye even so to them; for this is the law and the prophets.'"
"But, my dear boy!" exclaimed Mrs. Bartholomew.
"What, mamma?"
"You don't mean, you cannot mean, that you want to act that out to the
letter?"
"What does it mean, mamma?"
"I always thought it meant that we should be considerate of other
people's feelings," said Mrs. Laval; "kind and thoughtful."
"But the words are very plain," said David.
"And you think really that we ought to give to everybody else the
things we want for ourselves?"
"Not that exactly, aunt Zara; only to give them what we would like to
have given if we were in their place; I mean, what we would _have a
right_ to like to have given, if we were in their place."
"According to that, you would carry to that sick child everything that
Norton and Matilda had when they were sick."
"Such as?"--inquired David.
"Fruit, and oysters, and flowers, and tea at three dollars a pound."
"Tea at three dollars a pound would be lost upon him, for he would not
know the difference between that--and I suppose--lower priced tea. What
_can_ you get good tea for, aunt Zara?"
"Tea good for him,--for a dollar, and twelve shillings."
"Tea good for anybody," said Mrs. Lloyd. "I have had it good enough for
anybody, for a dollar fifty?"
"The other things," said David, returning to his aunt, "why shouldn't
he have them, as well as we, aunt Zara?"
Mrs. Laval was dumb, I suppose with astonishment as well as the
inconvenience of finding an answer; and before anybody else began
again, Matilda's soft voice gave forth another verse.
"'Blessed is he that considereh the poor; the Lord will deliver him in
time of trouble.'"
"Of course," said Mrs. Laval; "we _do_ consider the poor."
"Let the child go on," said Mrs. Lloyd. "I want to hear all she has to
bring."
Matilda went on with Job's declaration.
"'If I have withheld the poor from their desire, or have caused the
eyes of the widow to fail; or have eaten my morsel myself alone, and
the fatherless hath not eaten thereof; (for from my youth he was
brought up with me, as with a father, and I have guided her from my
mother's womb;) if I have seen any perish for lack of clothing, or any
poor without covering; if his loins have not blessed me, and if he were
not warmed with the fleece of my sheep; if I have lifted up my hand
against the fatherless, when I saw my help in the gate: then let mine
arm fall from my shoulder blade, and mine arm be broken from the bone.'"
"Who said that?" demanded Mrs. Bartholomew.
"Job."
"I don't see what he has to do with us," said the lady, moving her
rosetted slipper impatiently, and so making a soft little rustle with
the lilac ruffles of her silk skirt.
"The old fellow had no business to swear, anyhow," said Norton.
"Swear!" said Judy.
"Something very like it," said Norton.
"Go on, Matilda," said Mrs. Lloyd,--"if you have anything more."
"Yes, grandmamma."
"What is David trying to prove?" asked Mrs. Laval.
"We are only trying to find out what the word of the Lord would make us
do, aunt Zara."
The two younger ladies looked annoyed; however silence was restored,
and Matilda began again.
"'He that despiseth his neighbour sinneth; but he that hath mercy on
the poor, happy is he.'"
"Do we despise anybody?" Mrs. Bartholomew asked. No one answered at
first.
"_I_ do," said Judy. "Just two or three."
"'He that hath pity upon the poor lendeth unto the Lord; and that which
he hath given will he pay him again.'"
"You see," said David, "the Lord reckons it his own affair. These are
Messiah's poor people; we are his stewards."
"How much are you going to give them, on that principle?" his mother
inquired.
"I don't know, mamma."
"But speak!" she said impatiently. "You _do_ know what you mean to do;
you have it all mapped out already in your head, I know."
"I don't know how much I shall give, mamma. Whatever I think they want
more than I do."
"You might wear homespun, and eat bread and water, at that rate."
"Mamma," said Judy, "we are very wicked to wear silk dresses. And just
think of your lace shawl, mamma! And grandma's."
Matilda waited, and when nobody carried on the talk and the silence
waited for her, she went on with Isaiah's beautiful words.
"'Is not this the fast that I have chosen? to loose the bands of
wickedness, to undo the heavy burdens, and to let the oppressed go
free, and that ye break every yoke? Is it not to deal thy bread to the
hungry, and that thou bring the poor that are cast out to thy house?
when thou seest the naked, that thou cover him; and that thou hide not
thyself from thine own flesh?'"
"What is 'loosing the bands of wickedness'?" asked Mrs. Lloyd.
"Now-a-days, grandmamma, I should say it was breaking up the killing
rents and starving wages, and the whole system of tenement houses; for
one thing."
"Why what do you know about it, Davy, boy?"
"Not very much, ma'am; but I have seen a little, and the doctor I went
for told me a good deal."
"Davy's growing elegant in his speech, as well as modest," said his
sister. "He has 'heard a good deal,' but he 'don't know much.' O Davy,
why don't you make better use of your opportunities!"
"Very unprofitable opportunities, I must say," remarked his mother. "I
have no idea that such a boy has any business with them, or anything to
do in such places. And what does he know about wages and systems of
business?"
"Go on, Matilda," said Mrs. Lloyd. "I am afraid, my dear, David is
right. I have heard the same things from others. Go on, Matilda."
"'Then said he also to him that bade him, When thou makest a dinner or
a supper, call not thy friends, nor thy brethren, neither thy kinsmen,
nor thy rich neighbours; lest they also bid thee again, and a
recompense be made thee. But when thou makest a feast, call the poor,
the maimed, the lame, the blind: and thou shalt be blessed; for they
cannot recompense thee: for thou shalt be recompensed at the
resurrection of the just.'"
Matilda read these words, with a quick remembrance of the time when she
had read them in the company of her two little schoolmates, and the
discussion that had ensued thereupon; curious what their reception
would be now. It was stormy.
"The idea!" said Mrs. Bartholomew.
"That would make a finish of society at once," said Mrs. Laval.
"But what do the words mean?" asked Mrs. Lloyd. "There they are. They
must mean something."
"Something!" echoed Mrs. Bartholomew. "Just imagine, that we are to
gather in a company of cripples round our dinner table! Send out and
ask all the forlorn creatures we can find, and feed them on game and
sweetbreads. It looks like it!"
"And give up entertaining our friends," added Mrs. Laval.
"What friends do we entertain, aunt Zara?" David asked. "You do not
care much for most of them."
"You are a ridiculous, absurd, fanatical boy!" said Judy. "What
nonsense you do talk!"
"Nonsense that would make an end of all civilization," said Mrs. Laval;
not quite logically.
"But do you care much for these people you invite?" David persisted.
"Not singly," Mrs. Laval admitted; "but taken together, I care a great
deal. At least they are people of our own rank and standing in society,
and we can understand what they talk about."
"But what do the words mean?" Mrs. Lloyd asked.
"Why mother," said Mrs. Bartholomew, "you have read them a thousand
times. They mean what they always did."
"I don't think I ever raised the question till this minute," said Mrs.
Lloyd. "In fact, I don't think I knew the words were there. And I
should like to know now what they mean."
"Grandmother," said David, "isn't it safe to conclude they mean just
what they say?"
"Then we should never ask anybody to dinner!" cried his mother.
"And we should never have a party again," said Judy.
"Society would be at an end," said Mrs. Laval.
"And we should fill our house with horrid wretches," cried Judy, "and
have to take up our carpets and clean house every time."
David was silent while these various charges were eagerly poured out.
Norton looked at him a little scornfully; Matilda anxiously; but he was
only sorrowfully quiet, till his grandmother turned to him with her
question.
"What _would_ you do, Davy?"
"He'd do anything absurd and ridiculous," said Judy; "the more the
better. He is just fit for it. What's the use of asking him, grandma?"
"I would like to hear, my dear, if you will let him speak. I would like
to know what the words say to you, Davy."
"Grandmother," said David thoughtfully, "it seems to me the words
forbid that we should ask people just that they may ask us;--or do
anything of that sort."
"But society would fall to pieces," said Mrs. Bartholomew.
"I never heard of the strictest Christians refusing to do polite things
in that way, when they can," added Mrs. Laval.
"But what do the words say?" David answered. "And then, I think, the
Lord meant to forbid our making expensive entertainments for anybody,
_except_ those who can't give us the same again."
"Then we may ask our friends," said Judy, "only we mustn't give them
anything to eat. And of course no wine to drink. I wonder if we might
light the gas? It is expensive, when you burn enough of it. Such
meanness!" exclaimed Judy with concentrated scorn.
"You would put an end to society," repeated Mrs. Laval.
"What would be the use of having a fine house and large rooms and
beautiful things," asked her sister, "if nobody was to see them?"
David cast his eyes round the room where they were, and smiled a little.
"What _do_ you mean?" asked his mother sharply.
"I was thinking, mamma," said David; "I couldn't help thinking."
"Go on, David," Mrs. Lloyd said.
"Well, grandmamma, if one took the money to give poor people a good
time, it would not be necessary at all, as Judy supposed, to have them
brought into our dining room."
"But don't you think people are meant to be sociable, and see their
friends? We are not intended to live alone."
"Surely not," said Mrs. Laval.
"Grandmamma, and aunt Zara," said the boy, "I believe I would like to
look after Messiah's friends first; and then do what I pleased with my
own."
"Do you mean that all those low, miserable people are His friends?"
cried Mrs. Bartholomew.
"He is their friend, mamma; it comes to the same thing; and some of
them are his very own; and he has given us the charge to take care of
them. And his words seem to me very plain."
"He's a ruined boy, mamma!" said Judy.
"I _hope_ he'll grow out of it," said his mother.
"May I read one place more, grandmamma?" Matilda asked.
"I hope it's the last," said Mrs. Bartholomew.
"I like to hear them," said Mrs. Lloyd.
"Read, Matilda."
Matilda read, her voice trembling a little.
"'Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand, Come, ye blessed
of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation
of the world; for I was a hungered, and ye gave me meat; I was thirsty,
and ye gave me drink; I was a stranger, and ye took me in; naked, and
ye clothed me; I was sick, and ye visited me; I was in prison, and ye
came unto me. Then shall the righteous answer him, saying, Lord, when
saw we thee a hungered, and fed thee? or thirsty, and gave thee drink?
When saw we thee a stranger, and took thee in? or naked, and clothed
thee? or when saw we thee sick, or in prison, and came unto thee?
"'And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you,
Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren,
ye have done it unto me.'"
There was no remark made by anybody following upon this reading. The
circle broke up. With dissatisfied faces the ladies and Judy and Norton
withdrew their several ways. David presently went off too, but Matilda
had noticed that _his_ face was as serene as summer moonlight. She was
gathering up her books to go too like all the rest, when to her great
surprise Mrs. Lloyd came beside her and drawing her into her arms
bestowed an earnest kiss upon her uplifted wondering face. Then they
both went silently upstairs.