The days seemed to move slowly. They were such troublesome days to
Matilda. From the morning bath, which was simply her detestation, all
through the long hours of reading, and patching, and darning in Mrs.
Candy's room, the time dragged; and no sooner was dinner over, than she
began to dread the next morning again. It was not so much for the cold
water as for the relentless hand that applied it. Matilda greatly
resented having it applied to her at all by any hand but her own; it
was an aggravation that her aunt minded that, and her, no more than if
she had been a baby. It was a daily trial, and daily trouble; for
Matilda was obliged to conquer herself, and be silent, and submit where
her whole soul rose and rebelled. She must not speak her anger, and
pleadings were entirely disregarded. So she ran down in the morning
when her aunt's bell rang, and was passive under all that Mrs. Candy
pleased to inflict; and commanded herself when she wanted to cry for
vexation, and was still when words of entreaty or defiance rose to her
lips. The sharp lesson of self-control Matilda was learning now. She
had to practise it again when she took her hours of needlework. Mrs.
Candy was teaching her now to knit, and now to mend lace, and then to
make buttonholes; and she required perfection; and Matilda was forced
to be very patient, and careful to the extreme of carefulness, and
docile when her work was pulled out, and persevering when she was quite
tired and longed to go down and help Maria in the kitchen. She was
learning useful arts, no doubt, but Matilda did not care for them; all
the while the most valuable thing she was learning was the lesson of
power over herself. Well if that were all. But there were some things
also down in the bottom of Matilda's heart which it was not good to
learn; and she knew it; but she did not know very well how to help it.
Several weeks had gone by in this manner, and now June was about over.
Matilda had not gone to Lilac Lane again, nor seen Norton, nor made any
of her purchases for Mrs. Eldridge. She had almost given all that up.
She wondered that she saw nothing of Norton; but if he had ever come to
the house she had not heard of it. Matilda was not allowed to go out in
the evening now any more. No more Band meetings, or prayer meetings, or
church service in the evening for her. And in the morning of Sunday
Mrs. Candy was very apt to carry her off to her own church, which
Matilda disliked beyond all expression. But she went as quietly as if
she had liked it.
Things were in this state, when one evening Maria came up to bed and
burst out as soon as she had got into the room,--
"Think of it! They are going to New York to-morrow."
Matilda was bewildered, and asked who was going to New York.
"_They_. Aunt Erminia and Clarissa. To be gone all day! Hurrah! We'll
have just what we like for dinner, and I'll let the kitchen fire go
out."
"Are they going down to New York to-morrow?" said Matilda, standing and
looking at her sister.
"By the early train. Don't you hear me tell you?"
"I thought it was too good news to be true," said Matilda, drawing a
long breath.
"It is, almost; but they are going. They are going to do shopping.
That's what it's for. And I say, Matilda, won't we have a great dinner
to get!"
"They will want dinner after they get home."
"No, they won't. They will take dinner somehow down there. Why they
will not be home, Tilly, till nine o'clock. They can't. The train don't
get up till a quarter-past eight, that train they are going to take;
and they will have to be an hour pretty near riding up from the
station. Hurrah! hurrah!"
"Hush! don't make so much noise. They will hear you."
"No, they won't. They have come up to bed. We are to have breakfast at
six o'clock. We shall have all the longer day."
"Then I hope Aunt Candy will not have time to give me my bath."
"No, she won't; she told me to tell you. You are to be ever so early,
and help me to get the breakfast. I shall not know what to do with the
day, though, I shall want to do so much. That is the worst of it."
Matilda thought _she_ would be under no such difficulty, if only her
way were not so hedged in. The things she would have liked to do were
forbidden things. She might not go to Lilac Lane; she might not go to
Mrs. Laval's. She half expected that her aunt would say she must not go
out of the house at all. That misfortune, however, did not happen. The
early breakfast and bustle and arrangements for getting off occupied
Mrs. Candy so completely that she gave no commands whatever. The
omnibus fairly drove away with her, and left Maria and Matilda
unrestricted by any new restrictions.
"It seems," said Matilda, gravely, as they stood by the gate, "it seems
as if I could see the sky again. I haven't seen it this great while."
"Seen the sky!" said Maria; "what has ailed you? You have gone out
often enough."
"It didn't seem as if I could see the sky," said Matilda, gazing up
into the living blue depth above her. "I can see it now."
"You are funny," said Maria. "It don't seem to me as if I had seen
anything, for weeks. Dear me! to-day will be only too short."
"It is half-past six now," said Matilda. "Between now and nine o'clock
to-night there are--let me see; half-past twelve will be six hours, and
half-past six will be twelve hours; six, seven, eight, nine,--nine will
be two hours and a half more; that will be fourteen and a half hours."
"Fourteen," said Maria, "That half we shall be expecting them."
"Well, we've got to go in and put the house in order, first thing,"
said Matilda. "Let's make haste."
"Then I'll let the kitchen fire go out," said Maria; "and we'll dine on
bread and butter, and cold potatoes. I like cold potatoes; don't you?"
"No," said Matilda; "but I don't care what we have. I'll have bread and
butter and cold coffee, Maria; let us save the coffee. That will do."
With these arrangements made, the day began. The two girls flew round
in a kind of glee to put the rooms up and get all the work done out of
the way. Work was a kind of play that morning. Then they agreed to take
their dinner early and dress themselves. Maria was going out after that
to see some friends and have some fun, she said. Matilda on her part
had a sort of faint hope that to-day, when it would be so opportune, it
might happen that Norton Laval would come to see what had become of
her. She was almost afraid to go out and lose the chance; though, to be
sure, it was only the ghost of a chance. Yet for that ghost of a chance
she did linger and wait in the house for an hour or two after Maria had
gone out. Then it began to press upon her that her aunt had ordered her
to get some strawberries from Mr. Sample's for tea; she was uneasy till
it was done, and at last took her hat and her basket and resolved to
run round into Butternut Street and get that off her mind.
She was standing in Mr. Sample's shop, patiently waiting until her turn
should come to be served, when a hand was laid upon her shoulder.
"How do you do, Tilly? You are grown a stranger."
"O Mr. Richmond!" was Matilda's startled response. And it was more
startled than glad.
"What is the matter? you look as if I had frightened you,--almost,"
said the minister, smiling. Matilda did not say what was the matter.
"Have you been quite well?"
"Yes sir."
"You were not in your place on Sunday."
"No, sir."
And Matilda's tone of voice gave an unconscious commentary upon her
very few words.
"And you have not been to take tea with me in a great while."
"No, Mr. Richmond."
"Suppose you come to-day."
"Oh, I cannot, sir."
"Why not? I think you can."
"I don't know whether my aunt would let me."
"We will go and ask her."
"Oh no, sir; she is not at home, Mr. Richmond. She has gone to New
York."
"For how long?"
"Only till nine o'clock to-night."
"Then there can be no possible harm in your coming to take tea at the
parsonage."
"I don't know whether she would let me," said Matilda, with an evident
intimation that the doubt was barrier enough.
"You think she would not like it?"
"I think--perhaps--she would not. Thank you, Mr. Richmond!"
"But, Tilly, I want to talk to you. Have you nothing to say to me?"
"Yes, sir. A great deal," said the child, with the look of slow
meditation. The minister considered her for a moment.
"I shall take the decision of the question upon myself, Tilly, and I
will make it all right with your aunt. Come to the parsonage, or
rather, go to the parsonage; and I will join you there presently. I
have half an hour's business first to attend to. You must carry those
strawberries home? Very well; then go straight to the parsonage and
wait there for me."
And with an encouraging nod and smile, Mr. Richmond walked off. Matilda
took her basket home; carried the key of the house door to Maria at
Mrs. Trembleton's; and set her face up Butternut Street.
She was very glad; it seemed like getting out of prison; though she was
not altogether satisfied in her mind that Mr. Richmond might be able to
make it all right with Mrs. Candy. She was obliged to risk that, for
Mr. Richmond's invitation had had the force of an injunction. So she
took the good of the moment, and turned in at the gate of the parsonage
lane with something like a feeling of exultation and triumph. The
shadow of the elms was sweet on the road; the smooth quiet of the
grounds, railed off from worldly business and care, seemed proper only
to the houses of peace which stood upon them. The old creamy-brown
church on one side; on the other the pretty new Sunday-school house; in
front, at the end of the avenue of elms, the brown door of the
parsonage. Matilda felt as if her own life had got away from out of
peaceful enclosures; and she walked up the avenue slowly; too slowly
for such a young life-traveller. She had no need to knock this time,
but just opened the door and went straight to Mr. Richmond's study.
That was peace itself. It was almost too pleasant, to Matilda's fancy.
A cool matting was on the floor; the light softened by green hanging
blinds; the soft gloom of books, as usual, all about; Mr. Richmond's
table, and work materials, and empty chair telling of his habitual
occupation; and on his table a jar of beautiful flowers, which some
parishioner's careful hand had brought for his pleasure. The room was
sweet with geranium and lily odours; and so still and pure-breathed,
that the flowers in their depth of colour and wealth of fragrance
seemed to speak through the stillness. Matilda did not ask what they
said, though maybe she heard. She came a little way into the room,
stood still and looked about her a while; and then the child flung
herself down on her knees beside a chair and burst into a passion of
weeping.
It lasted so long and was so violent that she never heard Mr. Richmond
come in. And he on his part was astonished. At the first sound of his
voice Matilda stopped crying and let him raise her from the floor; but
he did not put her into a chair. Instead of that he sat down himself
and drew her to his side. Of course he asked what the matter was. Also,
of course, Matilda could not tell him. Mr. Richmond found that out, and
then took another road to his object. He let Matilda get quite quiet;
gave her a bunch of grapes to eat, while he seemed to busy himself
among his books and papers; at last put that down, and took Matilda's
plate from her.
"You do not come to church in the evening lately, I observe, Tilly," he
remarked.
"No, sir. Aunt Candy does not like me to go."
"And you have not been to the prayer meeting either, or to the meetings
of our Commission. The 'Band' is called our 'Christian Commission,'
now."
"No, sir." And Matilda's eyes watered.
"For the same reason?"
"Yes, sir."
"Not because you have lost pleasure in such meetings?"
"Oh no, Mr. Richmond! Did you think I had?" she asked, timidly.
"I could not _know_, you know," said Mr. Richmond, "and I wanted to ask
you. I am very glad to hear it is no bad reason that keeps you away."
"I didn't say _that_, Mr. Richmond," Matilda answered, slowly. "Could
it be a good reason?"
"Why, it might," said Mr. Richmond, cheerfully. "You might be not well
enough; or you might have more important duties to do at home; or you
might be unwilling to come alone; and all those might be good reasons
for staying away."
"It was no such reason," said Matilda.
There was silence.
"You wanted to talk to me, you said," Mr. Richmond observed.
"Yes, Mr. Richmond, I do; if I only knew how."
"Is it so difficult? It never used to be very difficult, Matilda."
"No, sir; but things are--different."
"_You_ are not different, are you?"
"I don't know," said Matilda, slowly; "I am afraid so. I feel very
different."
"In what way?"
"Mr. Richmond," she went on, still slowly, and as if she were
meditating her words,--"I don't see how I can do just right."
"In what respect?" said the minister, very quietly. Again Matilda
paused.
"Mr. Richmond, is it always wrong to hate people?"
"What things should make it right for us to hate people?"
"I don't know," said Matilda in the same considering way, "when there
isn't the least thing you can love them for, or like them?"
"What if the Lord had gone by that rule in dealing with us?"
"Oh, but He is so good."
"And has commanded us to be just as good, has He not?"
"But can we, Mr. Richmond?"
"What do you think, Tilly, the Lord meant when He gave us the order?"
"He meant we should try."
"Do you think He meant that we should only _try?_ do you think He did
not mean that we should be as He said?"
"And love hateful people?"
"What do you think, Tilly?"
"O Mr. Richmond, I think I'm not good."
"What is the matter, my dear child?" Mr. Richmond said tenderly, as
Matilda burst into quiet tears again. "What troubles you?"
"_That_, Mr. Richmond. I'm afraid I am not good, for I am not like
that; and I don't see how I can be."
"What is the hindrance? or the difficulty?"
"Because, Mr. Richmond, I am afraid I hate my Aunt Candy."
Mr. Richmond was quite silent, and Matilda sobbed awhile.
"Do I understand you aright?" he said, at last. "Do you say that you
hate your aunt?"
"I am afraid I do."
"Why should you hate her? Is she not very kind to you?"
"I do not call her kind," said Matilda.
"In what respect is she not kind?"
The child sobbed again, with the unspoken difficulty; stifled sobs.
"She is not cruel to you?" said Mr. Richmond.
"I think she is cruel," said Matilda; "for she does not in the least
care about doing things that I do not like; she does not care at all
whether I like them or not. I think she likes it."
"What?"
"Just to do things that I can't bear, Mr. Richmond; and she knows I
can't bear them."
"What is her reason for doing these things?"
"I think the greatest reason is because she knows I can't bear them. I
think I am growing wicked."
"Is it because you displease her in any way, that she does it for a
punishment?"
"I do not displease her in any way," said poor Matilda.
"And yet she likes to grieve you?"
"She said I wanted putting down. And now, I suppose I am put down. I am
just in prison. I can't do anything. I can't go to Mrs. Laval's house
any more. I must not go to Lilac Lane any more. She won't let me. And O
Mr. Richmond, we were going to do such nice things!"
"Who were going to do such nice things?"
"Norton Laval and I."
"What things were they?"
"We were going to do _such_ nice things! Mrs. Laval gave me money for
them, and Norton, he has money always; and we were going to have Mrs.
Eldridge's house cleaned, and get a bedstead, and towels, and a table,
and ever so many things for her, to make her comfortable; and I thought
it would be so pleasant to get the things and take them to her. And
aunt Candy says I am not to go again."
"Did you tell your aunt what you were going to do?"
"Oh no, sir; she thinks I have no business with such things; and she
does not like anybody to go into very poor houses."
"Then you did not ask her leave?"
"It never is any use to ask her anything. She won't let me go out to
church now, except in the morning, and then sometimes she makes me go
with her."
Mr. Richmond was silent for some time. Matilda grew quiet, and they
both were still.
"And the worst of it all is," resumed Matilda, at last, "that it makes
me hate her."
"I do not like to hear you say that."
"No, Mr. Richmond," said Matilda, very sorrowfully.
"Do you think it is right?"
"No, sir."
"Do you think you cannot help doing what is wrong."
"I don't think I can like Aunt Candy."
"We will pass that. But between not liking and hating, there is a wide
distance. Are you obliged to hate her?"
Matilda did not answer.
"Do you think anybody can be a child of God and have _hatred_ in his
heart?"
"How can I help it, Mr. Richmond?" said Matilda, piteously.
"How can you help anything? The best way is to be so full of love to
Jesus that you love everybody for his sake."
"But people that are not good," said Matilda.
"It is easy to love people that are good. The wonder of the love of the
Lord Jesus is, that it comes to people who are not good. And His
children are like Him. 'Be ye followers of God,' He tells them, 'as
dear children; and walk in love.'"
"I am not like that, Mr. Richmond," Matilda said, sadly.
"Didn't you love little Lem Dow? I am sure he is not very good."
"But he never troubled me, much," said Matilda. "He does not make me
miserable all the day long."
Mr. Richmond paused again.
"Our Master knew what it was to be ill-treated by bad people, Matilda."
"Yes, Mr. Richmond."
"How did he feel towards them?"
"Oh, but I am not like that," said Matilda again.
"You must be, if you are His child."
"Must I?" said Matilda, the tears dropping from her eyes quietly. "How
can I? If you only knew, Mr. Richmond!"
"No matter; the Lord knows. Tell Him all about it, and pray to be made
so like Him and to love Him so well that you may love even this unkind
friend."
"I don't think she is my friend," said Matilda; "but it don't make any
difference."
"No, it does not make any difference."
"Mr. Richmond," said Matilda, timidly, after a moment, "won't you pray
with me?"
Which the minister instantly did. Matilda wept quietly all the time of
his prayer, and after they rose from their knees, leaning her head on
Mr. Richmond's shoulder, where she had poured out her troubles once
before. Her friend let her alone, keeping his arm round her kindly,
till the child raised her head and wiped her eyes.
"Do you feel better?" he whispered then. Matilda answered "yes," in an
answering whisper.
"But Mr. Richmond," she said, presently, "I am very sorry for Lilac
Lane."
"I am very sorry," he said.
"There is the money in my purse, all ready, and our list of things. It
would have been so pleasant."
"Very pleasant," Mr. Richmond answered.
"And now I can't do Band work any more," Matilda went on. "I have no
opportunities for anything any more. I cannot do anything at all."
"There might be something to say about that," Mr. Richmond replied;
"but I think you have had enough talk just now. Is your sorrow on
account of Lilac Lane because you have lost the pleasure? or because
Mrs. Eldridge has lost it?"
"Why, both," said Matilda.
"I suppose so. Would it be any comfort to you to know that the work was
done, even though you did not see it?"
"What, you mean the house cleaned and the things got, and Mrs. Eldridge
fixed up as we meant to do it?"
"I mean that."
"Oh yes," said Matilda. "If I could know it was done, I would not be
half so sorry about it. But Norton can't manage alone; and Maria has no
time."
"No, but somebody else might. Now go off and talk to Miss Redwood; and
make some more gingerbread or something; and after tea we will see
about your lost opportunities if you like."
"Would Miss Redwood do all that for me?" said Matilda.
"You can consult her and find out."