Matilda went home with new strength, and full of the will to do the
very best she could in her hard circumstances. But the next morning's
dousing, and scrubbing, and rubbing down seemed more fierce than ever.
If Matilda ever ventured to say "Oh don't!"--Mrs. Candy was sure to
give her more of what she did not like. She had learned to keep her
tongue still between her teeth. She had learned to wince and be quiet.
But this morning she could hardly be quiet. "Can I help hating Aunt
Candy?" she thought to herself as she went down-stairs. Then she found
Maria full of work for which she wanted more fingers than her own; and
Matilda's were very busy till breakfast time, setting the table,
hulling strawberries, sweeping the hall, making coffee, baking the
biscuit. Both the girls busy, and Maria cross. Breakfast was not
sociable; and Matilda was summoned to go to her aunt's room as soon as
the dishes were put away.
"Can I help it?" thought Matilda. And as she went up the stairs she
prayed for a loving heart, and that this feeling, which was like a
sickness, might be taken away from her.
"What makes you look so meek?" exclaimed Clarissa, as she entered the
room. Mrs. Candy lifted her face to see.
"I like to see children look meek," she said. "That's the way they
should look. Matilda's cold bath is doing her good."
"Mamma, you are very severe with your cold baths!" said the young lady.
"They did _you_ good once," said her mother. "You need not speak
against them. Matilda is a different child since she has been in my
bath. Here is your lace, Matilda. I am too busy to hear you read this
morning. Take your seat over there, and see how well you can do this;
it's rather a difficult piece."
It was a very difficult piece. Matilda's heart sank when she saw it;
besides that her aunt's words seemed to have taken away all the
meekness she had, and to have stirred up anew all her worst feelings.
She put her hand to her face to hide her eyes, while she prayed afresh
for help and a sweeter spirit. She seemed to be all on edge.
"What's the matter?" said Mrs. Candy. "Begin your work, child; you'll
want all the time you have got, I warn you. Don't waste your time
idling."
Matilda tried to remember what Mr. Richmond had said the night before,
of the uses of things; and tried to pray quietly while she was taking
up threads in her lace. But remembering and praying made the tears
come; and then she could not see the threads, and that would not do.
By and by she became interested in what her aunt and cousin were saying.
They were unfolding their yesterday's purchases, and talking about what
they were going to do with them. Gauzes, and muslins, and other stuffs
new to Matilda, were laid open on the bed and hung about over the backs
of chairs, and the room looked like a mercer's shop. Here was a
delicate embroidered white muslin; there a rosy gauze; there a black
tissue; here something else of elegant pattern; with ribbands, and
laces, and rufflings, and a great variety of pretty articles. Matilda
thought her aunt and cousin were having a great deal more amusing time
than she had.
"What are you doing, Matilda?" Mrs. Candy's voice said again.
"Looking at Cousin Issa's things, ma'am."
"Mind your work, child. You will not have that done by dinner-time."
"Why, I _can't_, Aunt Candy."
"You could if you had been industrious. You cannot now, very likely.
But you must finish it before you leave this room."
"It is no use!" said Matilda, throwing the lace down; "I can't _near_
get it done for dinner. It is very hard, and it will take a great
while!"
Mrs. Candy waited a moment.
"Pick up your work," she said, "and come here and stand before me, and
beg my pardon."
Matilda felt as if it was impossible to do this.
"Do it, and quickly," said Mrs. Candy; "or your punishment will come
to-morrow morning, child. Do not be foolish. I shall give you something
hot as well as cold, I warn you."
It seemed to Matilda that she could not humble herself to do as she was
bidden; and the struggle was terrible for a minute or two. It shook the
child's whole nature. But the consciousness of the indignity awaiting
her in case of refusal fought with the keen sense of indignity now, and
conquered in time. Matilda picked up her work, came before Mrs. Candy,
and asked her pardon.
"Very well," said that lady, tapping her cheek carelessly; "now go and
sit down and behave yourself. The lace must be finished before you
leave my room."
It was a day of sharp trial to Matilda, all the more, perhaps, that it
came after a time of so much relief, and hope, and help. Matilda was
disappointed. She was not a passionate child; but for some hours a
storm of passion filled her heart which she could not control. Her lace
needle went in and out, keeping time to the furious swayings of
indignation and resentment and mortified pride and restless despair.
She was in her aunt's hands; completely in her power; helpless to
change anything; obliged even to swallow her feelings and hide her
displeasure. For a while that morning, Matilda felt as if she would
have given almost anything for the freedom to show her aunt what she
thought of her. She dared not do it, even so much as by a look. She was
forced to keep a quiet face and sit obediently mending her difficult
piece of lace; and the child's heart was in great turmoil. With that,
by and by, there began to mingle whispers of conscience; little
whispers that anger and hatred and ill-will were not right, nor
becoming her profession, nor agreeing at all with that "walking in
love" which Mr. Richmond had spoken of the night before. And sorrow
took its part too among the feelings that were sweeping over and
through her heart; but Matilda could not manage them, nor rule herself,
and she at last longed for the dinner-bell to ring, when her aunt and
cousin would leave her and she would be alone. Lace-mending got on very
slowly; her eyes were often dim, and it hindered her; though she would
not let the tears fall. When the bell rang, and the door was locked
upon her, Matilda's work dropped, and she too herself almost fell upon
her knees in her eagerness to seek and get help. That was what she
prayed for; not that her aunt might grow kind, nor that she might be
somehow separated from her and taken from her rule; but that she might
have help to be right; a heart to love, and bear, and forgive, and be
gentle. Matilda prayed and prayed for that; while her lace lay on the
floor, and the dinner down-stairs was gloomily going on.
"What's the matter with Matilda to-day?" Maria had inquired.
"Only a little impatience of her duties," Mrs. Candy had replied,
quietly.
"I don't see what duties she can have, to keep her shut up in your
room," said Maria, hotly.
"No. My dear, there are a great many things you cannot see yet. And
where you cannot see, it is rather wise not to give opinion."
"I have a right to an opinion about my sister, though," said Maria;
"and she isn't getting any good with all your shutting her up."
"There I think differently from you, Maria. Matilda can darn stockings
now in a way I am not ashamed of; much better than you can, I assure
you; and she is going on to learn lace-mending beautifully."
"What use is that to her? I should like to know!" said Maria,
scornfully.
"It may be some use to me," said Mrs. Candy.
"You are doing Matilda a great deal of mischief," said Maria. "She is
not the same child she was."
"No, she is not," said Clarissa. "She is a great deal better behaved."
"Yes. I have taught her to know her place," said Mrs. Candy. "It is a
pity that is what _you_ never were taught, Maria. You are too old now.
I couldn't take a switch to you, and that's the only way."
"You never did to her?" exclaimed Maria, blazing with fury.
"I never did," said Mrs. Candy; "but Matilda knows I would, at a
moment's notice, if necessity came. I may do it yet, but I rather think
I shall have no occasion."
"You are a horrid woman!" exclaimed Maria. "_Of use to you_. Yes, that
is just what you care about. You want Matilda for a little drudge, to
mend your stockings, I suppose, and darn your lace. You are too mean to
live. If mamma had only known----"
When people get so far as this in a burst of helpless rage, the next
thing usually is tears; and Maria broke down accordingly. Mrs. Candy
and Clarissa finished their dinner and went away.
"One cannot stand much of this sort of thing, mamma," said Clarissa, as
they mounted the stairs.
"I am not going to stand much of it," replied Mrs. Candy. "I am rather
glad of this outburst. It gives me the opportunity I wanted."
"What will you do, mamma?"
"I have been thinking for some time what I would do. This just gives me
the opening. I will get rid of this girl."
"And what will you do with her?"
"Let her go learn her sisters' trade; or some other, if she likes. We
do not suit each other, and I am tired of it."
"Yes, and mamma, though it is so good of you to keep her in this way,
do you know you get no thanks for it?"
"Oh, I never looked for thanks," said Mrs. Candy.
"No, but I mean, people do not give you credit for it, mamma. I know
they do not."
"Like enough. Well--I won't ask them."
"And you will keep the little one?"
"She's manageable. Yes, I will keep her. I like the child. She's
pretty, and clever too; and she'll be very nice when she grows up. I'll
keep her. I shall want her some day, when you get married."
"Besides, I suppose people would say ill-natured things if you did not
keep one of them," said Clarissa. "Matilda has a temper; but she minds
you, mamma."
"I have got her in hand pretty well," said Mrs. Candy, as she unlocked
the door. "Well, is that lace done? Not? Let me see. You have not done
a dozen stitches while I have been away!"
"I'll do it now," said Matilda; so quietly and with a voice so cleared
of all roughness or ill-temper, that Mrs. Candy after looking at her,
passed on to her seat and said nothing further.
But it cost Matilda some hours yet of patient diligence, before her
task was ended. Then she brought it to her aunt for approval. No fault
was found with it, and she was free to go down-stairs to Maria. Maria
had got out of the weeping mood into dry fury again.
"I am not going to stand it!" she said.
"What are you not going to stand?"
"This way of going on. I will not put up with it any longer."
"What can you do, Maria?"
"I'll go away. I will! I declare I will. I will not be Aunt Candy's
cook and waiter any longer. I am not going to stand it. She may get her
own dinners--or get a girl."
"But where can we go, Maria? It is no use to talk so. We haven't any
place."
"She may keep you," said Maria; "but I'll go. I can't stand it. I don't
know where. Somewhere! Anywhere would be better than this."
"I couldn't live here without you, Maria, you know," said the little
one. "Don't talk so. What has made you angry to-day?"
"Why, the way you are served; and the way I am talked to."
"Me?" said Matilda. "Never mind. You and I have a good deal of time for
ourselves, Maria. I shall get along, and I shall not mind so much.
Don't you mind."
"I won't stay and see it," said Maria, stoutly; "nor I won't stay and
bear my part of it."
"I quite agree with you," said Mrs. Candy, walking in from the other
room. The girls were in the kitchen. "I quite agree with you, Maria. It
is as unpleasant for me as it is for you, and you are doing no good to
Matilda. It will be much better for us to separate. I have been
thinking so for some time. You may choose what you will do, and I will
make arrangements. Either you may join Anne and Letitia in town, and
learn the business they are learning; or if you like any other business
better, I will try and arrange it for you. Let me know to-morrow
morning what you decide upon, and I will finish up the matter at once.
I am quite tired of the present state of things, as you say."
Mrs. Candy finished her harangue and swept out by the other door.
Nobody had interrupted her, and when she was gone nobody spoke. The two
girls looked at each other, Maria with a face of consternation, Matilda
white with despair. You might have heard a pin fall in the kitchen,
while Mrs. Candy's footsteps sounded in the hall and going up stair
after stair. Then Matilda's head went down on the table. She had no
words.
"The old horrid old thing!" was Maria's exclamation. "She came and
listened in the other room!"
But Matilda did not answer, and there was no relief in the explanation.
"I won't go!" said Maria next. "I won't go, unless I'm a mind to. It's
my mother's house, not hers."
Matilda had no heart to answer such vain words. She knew they were vain.
"Why don't you speak!" said Maria, impatiently. "Why do you sit like
that?"
"It's no use, Maria," said the little one, without raising her head.
"What is no use? I said I wouldn't go; and I will not, unless I choose.
She can't make me."
"She will!" said Matilda, in a burst of despairing tears.
And she did. Before the week was over, Maria was relieved at her post
in the kitchen and established with a dressmaker, to learn her trade.
But not in Shadywalk. Mrs. Candy thought, she said, that Maria would
have a better chance in a larger town, where there was more work and a
larger connection; so she arranged that she should go to Poughkeepsie.
And thither Maria went, to live and learn, as her aunt remarked.
The change in Matilda's life was almost as great. She had no more now
to do in the work of the house; Mrs. Candy had provided herself with a
servant; and instead of cooking, and washing dishes, and dusting, and
sweeping, Matilda had studies. But she was kept as close as ever. She
had now to write, and cipher, and study French verbs, and read pages of
history. Clarissa was her mistress in all these, and recitations went
on under the eye of Mrs. Candy. Matilda's life was even a more busy one
than it had been before. Her lessons were severe, and were required in
perfection; she was forced to give many hours a day to the preparing of
them; and these hours were always in the afternoon and evening. The
mornings were spent still in Mrs. Candy's room. When the art of darning
lace was mastered, her aunt decided that it was good for her to learn
all kinds of sewing. Clarissa and her mother were engaged in making up
a quantity of dresses out of the materials they had purchased in New
York; and Matilda was set to run up breadths of skirts, till she could
do that thoroughly; then she was made to cover cord, by the scores of
yards, and to hem ruffles, and to gather them, and to sew on bindings,
and then to sew on hooks and eyes; and then to make button-holes. The
child's whole morning now was spent in the needle part of
mantua-making. After dinner came arithmetic, and French exercises, and
reading history; and the evening was the time for reciting. Matilda was
too tired when she went up to bed to do more than look at a verse or
two in her Bible, and make a very short prayer; she almost dropped
asleep while she was doing that. However, in the morning she had a
little time now, not having to go down to get breakfast; but the long
lessons before her were a sore temptation to cut short her Bible
reading. Nevertheless Matilda would not cut it short. It was the
child's one happy time in all the day. The rest was very heavy, except
only as the sweetness of Bible words and thoughts abode with her and
came up to her, bringing comfort and giving energy. She was trying with
all her might to buy up her opportunities. She studied her lessons as
if that were the only thing in the world to do; and in the hours of
sewing, Mrs. Candy found her a most excellent help; quick, and neat,
and skilful, and very apt to learn. Matilda was learning fast many
things; but the most precious of all were, to be silent, to be patient,
to be kind, and to do everything with an endeavour to please God in it.
Her little face grew pale with confinement and steady work; it grew
fine also with love and truth. It grew gentle with the habit of
gentleness, and sweet with the habit of forgiving. But all the while it
grew pale. She was very lonely and unspeakably sad, for such a child.
Her aunt kept her too close; gave her no liberty at all; even on
Sundays she had put a stop to the little Bible readings in the
Sunday-school, by not letting Matilda go till the regular school time.
She never went to Lilac Lane; never to Mrs. Laval's. She did go
sometimes to the parsonage; for Mr. Richmond had managed it--Matilda
did not know how; and once she had met Norton in the street and told
him how things were with her, at which he was intensely and very
gratifyingly displeased. But his displeasure could not help. The weeks
went steadily on with a slow grinding power, as it felt to Matilda.
There seemed to be less and less of her every week, to judge by her own
sensations. Less spirit and spring; less hope and desire; less strength
and pleasure. Work was grinding her down, she thought--work and
discipline. She was getting to be a little machine that her aunt
managed at pleasure; and it did not seem to herself that it was really
Matilda Englefield any longer. She was a different somebody. And that
was in a measure true. Yet the work doing was more and better than she
knew. It was not all lace-mending, and mantua-making, and learning
rules of arithmetic and French verbs. The child was growing pale, it is
true; she was also growing strong-hearted in a new way. Not in the way
of passion, which is not strong; but in the way of patience.
Self-command was making her worth twice as much as she ever had been in
her life before. Matilda constantly did what she would rather not, and
did it well. She sewed when she would have liked to do something else;
she studied when she was tired; she obeyed commands that were hateful
to her; she endured from her aunt what her child's heart regarded as
unspeakable indignities and disagreeablenesses; and she bore them, she
was forced to bear them, without a murmur, without a sign of what she
felt. More than that. Since her last recorded talk with Mr. Richmond,
Matilda had been striving to bear and to do without anger or
impatience; she had prayed a great deal about it; and now it was
getting to be a matter of course to oppose gentleness and a meek heart
to all the trials that came upon her. In proportion as this was true,
they grew easier to bear; far less hard and heavy; the sting seemed to
be going out of them. Nevertheless the struggle and the sorrow and the
confinement made the child's face grow thin and pale. Mrs. Candy said
it was the hot weather.
July and August passed in this manner; and then September. This last
month was the hardest of all; for Mr. Richmond was away from Shadywalk,
on some business which kept him nearly all the month.
Towards the end of it, Matilda coming back one afternoon from doing an
errand, was met suddenly near the corner by Norton Laval.
"Matilda!" he exclaimed, seizing both her hands. "Now I have got you.
Where have you been?"
"Nowhere."
"What have you been doing?"
"A great many things, Norton."
"I should think you had! Why haven't you been to see mamma? She has
wanted to see you. Come now."
"Oh no, I can't, Norton! I can't. I must go right home."
"Come after you have gone home."
"I cannot, Norton."
"Why not?"
"I can't get leave," Matilda whispered.
"Leave?" said Norton. "Whose leave can't you get? That----"
"Oh, never mind, Norton; I can't. I would come if I could." And
Matilda's eyes bore witness.
"Who hinders?" said Norton.
"Aunt Candy. Hush! don't tell I said so."
"Don't tell!" said Norton, in a very incensed tone. "Why, are you
afraid of her?"
"I mustn't stop, Norton. I must go home."
"Are you _afraid_ of anybody, Pink?" he said, holding her fast. "Is
that why you can't get out?"
Matilda's face changed, and her lip quivered, and she did not answer.
"And what has made you grow so thin? What ails you?" pursued the boy,
impetuously. "You are thin and blue."
"I don't know," said Matilda. "Aunt Candy says it is the hot weather. O
Norton, dear, don't keep me!"
"What have you got there?"
"Something Aunt Candy sent me to buy."
"Why didn't she send a cart to fetch it?" said the boy, taking the
bundle out of Matilda's hand. "Where have you been after this?"
"To Mr. Chester's."
"Why didn't you tell Chester to send it home? He sends mamma's things.
He'd have sent it."
"I couldn't, Norton. Aunt Candy told me to bring it myself."
"What sort of a person is she? your aunt, who keeps you so close? She
ain't much count, is she?"
"Oh hush, Norton!" said Matilda. "Don't, somebody will hear you."
"Do you like her?"
"I do not like to talk about her, Norton."
"Is she good to you?"
"Don't ask me, Norton, please. Now we are almost there; please let me
have the bundle. I don't want you to come to the house."
Matilda looked so earnest, Norton gave her bundle up without another
word, and stood looking after her till she had got into the house. Then
he turned and went straight to his mother and told her the whole story;
all he knew, and all he didn't know.
The end of which was, that the next day Mrs. Laval called to see Mrs.
Candy.
Now this was particularly what Mrs. Candy had wished to bring about,
and did not know how. She went to the parlour with secret exultation,
and an anxious care to make the visit worth all it could be. No doubt
Mrs. Laval had become convinced by what she had seen and heard, that
Mrs. Candy and her daughter were not just like everybody else, and
concluded them to be fit persons for her acquaintance. But yet the two
confronted each other on unequal ground. Mrs. Candy was handsomely
dressed, no doubt; from her cap to her shoe, everything had cost money
enough; "why can't I throw it on like that?" was her uneasy mental
reflection the minute after she was seated. She felt as if it clung
about her like armour; while her visitor's silks and laces fell about
her as carelessly as a butterfly's wings; as if they were part of
herself indeed. And her speech, when she spoke, it had the same easy
grace--or the carelessness of power; was it that? thought Mrs. Candy.
She had come to ask a favour, Mrs. Laval said. Mrs. Candy had a little
niece, whom her boy Norton had become very fond of. Mrs. Laval had come
to beg for the possession of this little niece as long at least as a
good long visit might be made to extend.
"Three or four days, for instance?" said Mrs. Candy.
"Oh no! that would be nothing. Three or four weeks."
She is very much at her ease! thought Mrs. Candy. Shall I let her have
her will?
Mrs. Candy was in a quandary. She did not like to refuse; she coveted
Mrs. Laval's notice; and this visit of Matilda's might be the means,
perhaps, of securing it. Then, also, she and her daughter had in
contemplation a journey to Philadelphia, and a visit there for their
own part; and it had been a question what they should do with Matilda.
To take her along would make necessary a good deal of fitting up, as a
preliminary; Matilda's wardrobe being in no readiness for such a
journey. Truth to tell, it was not very proper for a visit to Mrs.
Laval either; but Mrs. Candy reflected that it would cost much less on
the whole to leave her than to take her, and be really very much a
saving of trouble. Any loss of discipline, she remembered, could be
quickly made up; and the conclusion of the whole was that she accepted
Mrs. Laval's invitation, with no more than a few minutes of hesitation
during which all these thoughts passed through her mind.
"Thank you," said that lady. "May I have her to-morrow?"
"To-morrow. H'm," said Mrs. Candy. "I am afraid not to-morrow. I should
wish to make a little preparation, before the child goes to make such a
visit. She has been nowhere but at home this summer."
"Let me beg that you will not wait for any such matter," said Mrs.
Laval. "Send her to me just as she is. I have particular reasons for
liking her to come to me immediately. If she needs anything, trust me
to supply it. Shall she come to-morrow?"
You _do_ take a good deal for granted very easily! thought Mrs. Candy.
Then aloud--
"I should like to fit her up a little first The child has not been away
from home, and in mourning----"
"Won't you trust me to see that she does not want for anything? I
assure you, I will not neglect my charge."
"You are very kind," said Mrs. Candy; while she thought in her heart,
You are very presuming!
"Then you will indulge me?" said Mrs. Laval, graciously.
"If it must be so," said Mrs. Candy, doubtful.
"Thank you!" said her visitor. "My errand is my excuse for troubling
you this morning--and so early!"
Mrs. Candy felt a twinge. She had not thought it was early; she had not
thought about it.
"Your place is looking beautiful," she said, as her visitor rose. "It
is the prettiest place in Shadywalk."
"Oh, I am not in Shadywalk," said Mrs. Laval. "I am on the Millbrook.
Yes, it is pretty; but it is terribly hard to get servants. They won't
come from New York, and there are none here."
"Not many good ones," Mrs. Candy assented.
"None that will do for me. I am in despair. I have engaged a Swiss
family at last. I expect them to arrive very soon."
"From New York?"
"In New York. They are coming to me from Vevay. Father, mother, and two
daughters; and I believe a boy too. They will know nothing except
farmwork, when they come; but they do make excellent servants, and so
trustworthy."
"Will you want so many?"
"I will find use for them. To-morrow then. Thank you. Good morning."
Mrs. Candy stood, looking after her visitor. She was so elegantly
dressed, and her veil was of such rich lace. She must want a goodly
number of women in her household, Mrs. Candy allowed to herself, if she
often indulged in dresses of fine muslin ruffled like that. And Mrs.
Candy sighed. One must have money for those things, she reflected; and
not a good deal of money, but a great deal. A good deal would not do.
Mrs. Candy sighed again and went in, thinking that Matilda's not going
this journey with her would save her quite a pretty penny. Matilda as
yet knew nothing of what had been in her aunt's mind respecting
Philadelphia, or Mrs. Laval either. It had all the force of a surprise
when Mrs. Candy called her and told her to pack up her clothes for
leaving home.
"All my clothes, aunt Erminia?"
"You will want them all. Issa and I are going on a journey that will
take us a little while--and I am going to leave you in somebody's care
here; so put out whatever you will want for a couple of weeks."
Matilda wanted to ask with whom she was to be left; but that would come
in time. It would be somebody not her aunt, at any rate; and she went
to her room and began laying oat her clothes with fingers that trembled
with delight. Presently Mrs. Candy came in. She sat down and surveyed
Matilda's preparations. On one chair there was a neat little pile of
underclothes; on two others were similar neat little piles of frocks;
some things beside were spread over the bed.
"Those are all the dresses you have got, eh?" she said.
"That's all, aunt Candy. Here are my calicoes for every day, and those
are the rest; my blue spot, and my black gingham and my white. They are
all clean."
"Yes," said Mrs. Candy. "Well--I guess you don't want to take these
calicoes; they are pretty well worn, and you haven't any work to do
now-a-days. The others won't be too nice to wear, till I come home."
"Every day?" asked Matilda.
"Yes, every day. There are not quite enough; but you must be careful
and not soil them, and so make them do. There is not time to make any
now, or I would get you one or two. I meant to do it."
"When are you going, aunt Candy?"
"_You_ are going to-morrow. So make haste, and pack up everything you
want, Matilda. I do not know whether you can do with those three
frocks?"
"Oh yes, I will keep them clean," said the child, in her joy.
"Well, I believe you can," said Mrs. Candy. "Now make haste, Matilda."
It was such glad work. Matilda made haste in her eagerness, and then
pulled out things and packed them over again because it was not well
done the first time. Where was she going, she wondered? Mr. Richmond
was away from home still, or she should have heard more about it.
Meanwhile her clothes went into the little trunk her aunt had made over
to her, and her Bible was packed in a secure corner; her best boots
were wrapped up and put in, and her brush and comb. Then Matilda
remembered she would want these yet, and took them out again. She
hesitated over her book of French verbs and her arithmetic, but finally
stuck them into the trunk. It was not near full when all was done; but
Matilda's heart had not a bit of spare room in it.