The peace of the house was gone. Not, indeed, that quarrelling took its
place; there was no quarrelling; only an uncomfortable feeling in the
air, and looks that were no longer pleased and pleasant. Mrs.
Bartholomew wore a discontented face, and behaved so. Judy was
snappish; not a new thing exactly, but it was invariable now. David was
very quiet and very sober; however in his case the quiet _was_ quiet,
and the soberness was very serene; all the old gloom seemed to be gone.
Norton, Matilda thought, was cross; and she failed to see the occasion.
Even Mrs. Laval looked uncomfortable sometimes, and once remarked to
Matilda that it would be pleasant to get back to Shadywalk. And Matilda
loved Shadywalk and Briery Bank, but she was not ready with a response.
She tried to be very busy with her studies, and hoped that things would
work clear by and by. Once she had the curiosity to ask Norton how
David was getting on at school?
"Well enough," Norton answered shortly.
"Do the boys like him better?"
"Better than what?"
"Why, better than they used to?"
"I don't know. _I_ don't."
"Why not, Norton? O why don't you?"
"No accounting for tastes," Norton replied, rather grumly.
"Does David study well?"
"Yes. He always did."
Norton might have said that David was walking into everything and
through everything; but he did not say anything of the kind. And sundry
other questions that trembled on the tip of Matilda's tongue, only
trembled there, and never got any further.
Meanwhile Mrs. Binn was not forgotten.
"It's worth anything," David said to Matilda one day that week, "to see
the fellow eat strawberries."
"Strawberries! O did you take strawberries to him!" cried Matilda. "And
he liked them?"
"You could almost see the red of the strawberries getting up into his
cheeks. He's not quite so far as that, though. Like them! He raised
himself half up and lay on his elbow to eat them. Think of that! You
should have seen the fellow. Spoons were no go. He just forked them in
with his fingers."
"Does he lie in the entry yet, David?"
"No. His mother has got him into her bit of a room, and the wash tub is
where he was. I do think we might get him into the country next week,
if there was any place he could go to. He's like another boy, with a
bed under him and clean things and food that he can eat. I do believe
he was starving to death. Sick folks can't get along on dry crusts, or
even mush--plain, without butter or molasses," said David smiling.
"David, I have thought of something."
"What is it? Something to help us out of the difficulty?"
"I don't know. See what you think. You heard Miss Redwood and me
talking of Lilac lane, and people that live in it?"
"I heard nothing of Lilac lane; never did, till this minute."
"O you were in the study with Mr. Richmond. It is a place in Shadywalk
where some very poor people live."
"Well?" said David.
"But it is a delightful place compared to Mrs. Binn's tenement house. I
know some of the people there, and Miss Redwood knows more; and I was
thinking, perhaps she could find a house where they would take Josh in
and take care of him till he gets well. Miss Redwood could see to him a
little, you know."
"Why it's a capital idea, Tilly!" cried David. "Did you write and ask
her?"
"No, but I will."
"Do, to-day. That's just what he wants. Write, Tilly. I must be off to
my work."
Nothing stopped David's work, in these days; indeed he never had been
given to playing truant. Matilda pondered the matter a little, and then
wrote a letter to Miss Redwood; upon which letter, when it reached
Shadywalk, the housekeeper and the minister held consultation. The end
was, that after a week Matilda got an answer which said that the poor
family opposite Matilda's old Sally in Lilac lane, the same from whom
she had borrowed the teakettle once upon a time, had room to spare and
would gladly take the sick child in and take care of him, for the
compensation which would be offered. Miss Redwood also engaged herself
to see that proper care was had and proper food given; and in short the
way was clear.
"That will do," said David when he had read the letter. "Now, the thing
is to get him up there."
"Is Mrs. Binn willing?"
"She is one of the willingest persons you ever saw in your life."
"Well, how will you manage, David?"
"I don't see any way but to go myself."
"Go up to Shadywalk, you mean, to take the child there?"
"Yes."
"O, David, would you! And could you?"
"I don't see any other way."
"But school? will you miss a day?"
"Can't do that; and can't even give Saturday, so near the end of term.
I'll manage it."
"How, David?"
"Go up after school some day, and take a night train down."
"Is Josh--I mean, has he any clothes fit to travel in?"
"He has not any fit to sit up in at home. Never mind, I'll manage that,
Tilly."
"David, you tell me some of the things he wants, and I'll get Sarah
Staples and her mother to make them."
"Well.--But I'll pay charges, Tilly; I don't believe you've got much in
that little pocket of yours."
This consultation was private; and in private the new clothes for
Joshua Binn were procured and got ready; very plain and coarse clothes,
for David and Matilda were learning how much there was to do with their
money. All this caused no remark, not being open to it. But when David
took little Josh, wrapped up in an old cloak of his, and drove with him
in a carriage to the station, and took the cars with him to Shadywalk,
there was a general outcry and burst of astonishment and indignation.
David was at breakfast the next morning as usual; and the storm fell
upon him.
"I wonder how you feel this morning," said his grandmother, half in
displeasure and half in sympathy; for David was a favourite.
"After travelling all night," added Mrs. Laval.
"Up to study, Davy?" asked Norton.
"I am so astonished at you, David, that I do not know how to speak,"
began his mother. "_You_--always until now a refined, gentlemanly
boy,--_you_ to turn yourself into a head hospital nurse, and Poor
Society agent! travelling in company with the lowest riff-raff! I don't
know what to make of you. Really, I am in despair."
"He always was a poke," said Judy; "and now he's a poor poke."
"It is too bad!" echoed Mrs. Laval; "though _that_ isn't true, Judy."
"He's a spoiled boy," said Judy. "I wash my hands of him. I hope he'll
wash _his_ hands."
"The idea!" said Mrs. Bartholomew. "As if there was nobody else in the
world to look after sick children, but Davy must leave his own business
and go nursing them in the cars! I wouldn't have had anybody see him
for a thousand dollars."
"What harm, mamma?" asked David coolly.
"Harm?" repeated Mrs. Bartholomew. "Is it _your_ business to take all
sick New York and all poor New York on your hands, and send them to
watering places?"
"One poor little child?" said David.
"No matter; what's the use of sending one, if you don't send the other
hundred thousand? Is it your business, David Bartholomew?"
"Hardly, mamma. But I thought the one was my business."
"There you were mistaken. There are two or three poor societies; it is
for them to look after these cases. What is the use of having poor
societies, if we are to do the work ourselves? So low! so undignified!
so degrading! just ask any minister,--ask Dr. Blandford,--what he
thinks."
"David don't care, mamma," said Judy. "David never cares what anybody
thinks."
"Very wrong, then," said Mrs. Bartholomew; "every right-feeling person
cares what other people think. How is the world to get along? David, I
don't know you any more, you are so changed."
"Yes, mamma," said David; "perhaps I am."
"Perhaps you are? Why my patience!"--
"Your patience seems to have given out, daughter," said Mrs. Lloyd.
"Come, let Davy eat his breakfast."
"He's eating it," said Judy. "Nothing will hurt David's appetite."
"I should think nursing poor folks out of tenement houses might,"
observed Mrs. Bartholomew. "It would once."
"I can't imagine, mamma," said Judy, "how we are going to live together
in future. David isn't our sort any more. Life looks dark to me."
"If it was anybody but David," said Mrs. Bartholomew, "I should say he
would grow out of it. Any other young fool would."
"Grow out of what, mamma?" David asked.
"Grow out of the notion of being an agent of the poor societies. It's
too disgusting!"
"Mamma," he said, and he said it with such an unruffled face that
Matilda was comforted, "the poor society would not have done what I did
last night. And I am not doing it for the poor societies, but for the
King Messiah. I am His agent; that's all."
"Where did you get your commission?" Norton asked.
David hesitated, and then said, "Whatsoever ye would that men should do
to you--"
"But that's absolute nonsense!" exclaimed Mrs. Bartholomew.
"What, mamma?" said David, lifting his eyes to her face.
"I mean, of course, the words are not nonsense, but putting such a
meaning to them."
"What meaning do you think belongs to them, then, mamma?"
"Why," said Mrs. Bartholomew in high dudgeon, "if you are to take them
_so_, then we ought to send our carriage to take poor people to drive,
and we ought to give our grapes and our wine to sick people, instead of
eating them ourselves; and I ought to sell my diamonds and change them
into bread and coffee and feather beds, I suppose; and our silks and
laces ought to go for rents and firing for those who are in want."
"Well, mother?" said David.
"Well; is _that_ what you mean?"
"That's what the words mean, if they mean anything, mamma. I think the
King wants all we have got, to be used in his work; and all mine he
shall have."
There was no braggadocio, but a sweet steadfastness in the words and
manner which impressed all his hearers; though it impressed them
differently.
"Mother, what do you think of him?" Mrs. Bartholomew said, apparently
in despair.
"I don't know what to think, child," said the old lady. "I am puzzled."
"About me, grandmamma?" asked David.
"No, boy; I never was puzzled about you, and I am not now."
"We'll have grandma going over next!" exclaimed Judy, "and
then--What'll be then, mamma? Will this be a hospital, grandmamma? I
shouldn't like to live here in that case, because of the fevers. I
declare, I'm very sorry! Will David be the doctor or the minister,
grandmamma?"
"Hush, Judy!" said her mother. "Things are bad enough without you."
"There's one thing, you vexatious boy," said Judy; "your uncles will
give you up."
"They have done that already," said David quietly.
"Have they? O have they really, mamma? Then they won't give him their
money when they die! nor me neither. You hateful fellow! to go and make
me poor as well as yourself." And Judy began to cry. "I thought we'd be
so rich, mamma!"
"Do hold your tongue, Judy," said her mother. "You've got enough, and
David much more than enough."
But with this the uncomfortable breakfast party broke up.
"Matilda," said Mrs. Laval when they had gone upstairs,--"I don't know
whether you have done good or harm."
"She's done no good, mamma," said Norton. "Just look at Davy. And I can
tell you, grandmamma is beginning to read the Bible to herself; I've
seen her at it."
"But I haven't done anything, mamma," said Matilda.
"Well, my dear, I don't know who has, then," Mrs. Laval replied.
And the subject was dropped. But certainly Mrs. Lloyd did begin after
that to ask Matilda now and then, when they were alone, to read to her;
and Matilda found that David did it constantly, by his grandmother's
desire, in her own room.
The weeks were few now to the time when the household would break up;
Mrs. Laval and her children to return to Briery Bank, Mrs. Bartholomew
and hers for a cottage at Newport. Mrs. Lloyd was accustomed to abide
generally with the latter. All the members of the family were busied
with their various preparations; and the unsettled feeling of coming
change was upon the whole household. Little else was thought of. So
when an invitation came from the mother of Esther Francis, that all the
young ones should join a party of pleasure that were going to spend the
day in Westchester, it was a very unlooked for variety in the general
course of things. Of course they would go. The young people were to eat
strawberries and do everything else that was pleasant, at General
Francis's place. Mrs. Francis was not yet ready to leave town; there
was nobody in possession but the servants; the widest liberty would be
the rule of the day.
"How nice that the boys are out of school!" said Matilda. "Term just
ended."
"Of course. Couldn't have the party without the people," said Judy.
"Will there be a great many, Norton?" Matilda asked.
"Don't know anything about it. You must ask somebody else. Esther
Francis isn't our cousin."
"How dry you are," said David. "I know no more about it, Matilda, than
he does."
"Esther said there would be twenty or thirty," said Judy. "How are we
going? that's what I want to know."
"Take the Harlem railroad to the station," said Norton, "and drive the
rest. That's the way you always go to General Francis's. Mamma! I'd
like to drive Pink out. It's only thirteen miles."
"I'm afraid, Norton. I think you had better all go together."
Norton grumbled a little; however, it was good enough even so.
The day was the first of June; fresh and sweet as the first of June
should be. The four were in the cars early; and as soon as the train
had got quit of the city, the sights and smells of the country roused
Matilda to the highest pitch of delight. Such green fields! such blue
sky! such delicious air! and such varieties of pleasant objects that
she had not seen for some time! The rush to the station was one whirl
of pleasure; then the pleasure grew greater, for they got into a
carriage to drive across the country. Every foot of the way, though it
was not through a very enchanting landscape, was joyous to Matilda's
vision; and when the grounds were reached of General Francis's villa,
there was nothing more left in this world to desire. For there were
plantations of trees, extending far and wide, with roads and paths cut
through them; over which the young fresh foliage cast the sweetest of
shadow. There were meadows, broad and fair, green and smooth, with a
little river winding along in them, and scattered trees here and there
for shade, and fringes of willows and alders to the sides of the
stream. And at a little distance stood the large old house, with groves
of trees encircling it and lawns before and on one side of it; and on
the side lawn, in the edge of the grove, long tables set and spread
with damask.
"Dinner already?" queried Norton. "I am hungry enough."
"Dinner at ten o' clock!" cried Judy. "Breakfast, you mean."
"Esther, is it breakfast?" asked Norton, as their little hostess came
to them.
"It is what you like, Mr. Laval," said the little lady; whose pink bows
were not more in style than her manners.
"Norton is hungry, Esther," David remarked.
"I hope you are, too."
"What are you going to give us, Esther?" said Judy eagerly. "We are all
like bears. Strawberries?"
"We must wait for another carriage. The Grandsons are coming."
"I wouldn't wait," said Judy. "What's the use? Ten o' clock is late
enough for breakfast."
"But we shall not have the collation till three."
"What have you got for breakfast?"
"Coffee."
"And strawberries?"
"Haven't you had any strawberries this year?"
"Lots; but not in the country, you know, where they grow."
"And not with such yellow cream as we have got from our dairy."
"Will you have cream enough for all, Esther?" David asked, as coming
round the house they saw a small crowd of young people collected near
the tables. Esther smiled and bridled, and then there was no more
private talk, but a whole chorus of greetings and questions and
answers. And then another carriage drew up, with the missing Grandsons;
and the party went to breakfast.
It seemed to Matilda that to eat under the shadow of trees, and on the
carpet of the grass, and with the music of leaves and insects and
breezes, was the very most delightful thing that could be invented. She
was very hungry, no doubt; and Mrs. Francis's excellent cook had made
capital provision for her young mistress; but besides all that, how
pretty it was! The light flickered through the oak leaves upon the
white tablecloths, and gleamed from china and glass and silver in the
most cheery way; it gleamed upon the little river too and upon the
blades of grass on the lawn. Out there the sunshine was full; the eye
went across to the scattered trees and to the further woods on the
other side; a great promising playground it looked. And then the air
was so sweet and fresh. Matilda was not seated very well for her
pleasure; nobody near that she knew very well; nevertheless she eat her
strawberries and cream and devoured rolls and butter with a contented
appreciation of what she had, and an amused observation of what was
around her.
How were they to spend the day?
This question received earnest attention as soon as the business of
breakfast was off their hands.
"Day is pretty well gone already," said Norton consulting his watch.
"It is twelve o' clock. There is not time for anything else but to have
dinner and go home."
"We do not dine till four o' clock," Esther announced.
"Four hours," said somebody. "Time enough to get hungry again. I'll
take anybody that wants to go a row on the river; if somebody'll help
me row."
"Everybody do what everybody likes until three o' clock," said Esther.
"Suppose then, at three o' clock, we all gather in the pavilion and
have games?"
Unanimous acceptance of this proposal. Then a flutter and division and
scattering of the little crowd.
Matilda wondered what _she_ would do, or be asked to do. She would have
liked the sail on the Bronx; but so would a good many more. The little
boat was very soon filled with the eager applicants, and David
volunteered to help row it. One of Matilda's friends was thus removed
from her. She turned to look for Norton. He was not to be seen. A
general stampede of the boys to the stables made it supposable that he
was in the midst of the gay little group rushing that way. Matilda
looked around her. The tables were deserted; the little boat had
disappeared up the stream; all the boys were gone; and one or two
groups of girls, unknown to her, were loitering over the grass towards
the house. A flush of vexation and embarrassment came over Matilda. Was
this civility? and what was she to do with herself for three hours to
come? And how disagreeable, to be regarded as of no consequence and no
concern to anybody. Tears swelled in their fountains, but Matilda was
not going to cry. She would not linger alone by the table; she did not
know her way in the house, and besides would not seek those who should
properly seek her; she turned her steps to the little river. The
flowing water had a great charm for her; the bank was smooth and green;
she wandered along till she came to what she called a nice place, where
a young willow hung over and dipped its long branches in, and the bank
offered a soft shady seat. Matilda sat down, and felt very lonely. But
glimpses taken through the trees and shrubbery shewed her nobody near
or far, except the servants; and Matilda resolved to be quiet and wait
for better things by and by. She looked at her watch; it was half past
twelve. I am bound to confess it was a good half hour more before
Matilda could get the better of a desperate fit of disappointment and
vexation. She had not counted upon spending her holiday in this manner;
and slights and unkindness are pleasant to nobody. There is something
in use, however, and more in a quiet mind. The little girl's roiled
feelings at last ran clear again; and she began to enjoy things after
her own fashion.
The ripple and flow of that water was certainly delicious; it made one
cool only to hear it. She could get down to the brink too and
cautiously dip her hand in. There were little fishes in a shallow
there; their play and movement were very amusing, and Matilda went into
deep speculation about how much they knew, and what they felt, and what
their manner of life amounted to, and how they probably regarded the
strange creature looking down at them. Very much she wondered what they
could eat to live upon. The water plants that grew along the stream had
Matilda's attention too, and the mosses that covered the stones. And
one or two grasshoppers finally proved a great source of entertainment.
She quite forgot to feel lonely, and was taking her enjoyment in a very
harmonious way; when she heard a different swash of the water and the
dip of oars, and the boat shot round a curve and came down the stream.
She watched it, wondering whether its crew would see her. Just opposite
her willow the oars stopped.
"Is that you, Tilly?" David cried.
A small "yes" came from the bank.
"What are you doing there?"
"O, amusing myself."
"Where is everybody else?"
"I don't know."
"Where's Norton?"
"I don't know. I think he went to see the horses."
"Come down to the landing," said David after a moment's pause.
Matilda nodded, and the boat shot forward again. It had turns to take
following the course of the stream; while she on the land could cut
across points, and she reached the landing place the first.
The little party landed with cries of pleasure, and the next thing, set
off on a run for the house. David purposely hung back, so that he and
Matilda in a few minutes were behind all the others.
"Where is everybody?" inquired David.
"I don't know."
"What have you been doing all this while?"
"It was very pretty down by the water, David. I didn't mind;--at least,
not after the first. It was very pleasant there."
"All alone?"
"Yes; except the fishes and the grasshoppers."
"Well--I shall cut out the fishes now."
David kept his word. A deputation of the boys met them and begged him
to go where the others were riding. David went, but kept hold of
Matilda's hand, though warned that "the girls" were finding other
amusements in the house. Matilda was taken into the meadow where the
boys and the horses were congregated; a safe seat was found for her on
the wall, from whence she could survey the whole field; and though
David took his share in the amusements that followed, riding and racing
with the other boys, he never let her feel herself forgotten or alone;
stopping his horse every now and then in front of her to say something
and find out if she was happy. Matilda was very happy, greatly amused,
and intensely pleased that David had constituted himself her protector.
The hours sped along; the soft June sun was never too hot; the little
white clouds that crossed the sky cast shadows not needed for the busy
pleasure seekers, nor even for the quiet spectator. At last Matilda
heard a shout behind her.