The next day rose very bright and fair. Matilda had been sadly afraid
it would rain; but no such matter; the sun looked and smiled over the
world as if slyly wishing her joy on her good prospects. Matilda took
it so, and got ready for breakfast with a heart leaping with delight.
She had got no more news yet as to where she was going; but after
breakfast Mrs. Candy made her dress herself in the gingham and put on
her best boots, which made the little trunk all the emptier; and the
trunk itself was locked. Things were in this state, and Matilda mending
lace in her aunt's room; when Mrs. Candy's maid of all work put her
head in.
"The carriage has come, mum," she said.
"What carriage?" said Mrs. Candy.
"Meself doesn't know, then. The bi says he's come fur to get the chilt."
"What boy?" said Mrs. Candy, in growing astonishment.
"Sure, an' I haven't been here long enough fur to know all the bi's of
the village. He's the bi that come wid the carriage, anyhow, an' it's
the chilt he's wanting. An' it's the iligantest carriage you ever see
in your life; and two iligant grey horses, an' a driver."
Mother and daughter looked at each other. The lace had fallen from
Matilda's hands to the ground.
"Did he give no name?"
"It's just what he didn't, then. Only he jumped down, and axed was the
chilt ready. I tould him sure I didn't know, and he said would I go
see. An' what 'll I say to him, thin? for he's waitin'."
"I'll speak to him myself," said Mrs. Candy. "Go on with your work,
Matilda."
But in a few minutes she came back, and bade the trembling child put up
her lace and put on her hat, and go. I am afraid the leave-taking was a
short affair; for two minutes had hardly passed when Matilda stood in
the hall, and Norton caught her by both hands.
"Norton!" she cried.
"Yes, I've come for you. Come, Matilda, your trunk's in."
"Where are we going?" Matilda asked, as she let herself be led and
placed in the carriage, which was a low basket phaeton.
"Where are we going!" echoed Norton. "Where is it likely we are going,
with you and your trunk? Where did you mean to go to-day, Pink?"
"I don't know. I didn't know anything about it. O Norton, are we going
to your house!"
"If Tom knows the road," said Norton, coolly; "and I rather think the
ponies do, if he don't. Why, Pink! do you mean to tell me you didn't
know you were coming to us?"
"I didn't know a word about it."
"Nor how mamma went to ask for you?"
"Aunt Candy didn't tell me."
"Did she tell you you were going anywhere?"
"Yes. She made me pack up my clothes, but that's all."
"Didn't you ask her?"
Matilda shook her head. "I never do ask Aunt Candy anything."
"Why?" said Norton, curiously.
"I don't like to--and she don't like to have me."
"She must be a nice woman to live with," said Norton. "You'll miss her
badly, I should say. Aren't you sorry, Pink?" he asked, suddenly,
taking Matilda's chin in his hand to watch the answer she would give.
The answer, all smiling and blushing, contented Norton; and the next
instant the gray ponies swept in at the iron gate and brought them
before the house door.
Matilda jumped out of the carriage with a feeling of being in an
impossible dream. But her boot felt the rough gravel of the roadway;
the sun was shining still and warm on the lawn and the trees; the
mid-country, rich-coloured with hues of autumn, lay glittering in
light; the blue hills were over against her sleeping in haze; the gray
ponies were trotting off round the sweep, and had left her and Norton
standing before the house. It was all real and not a dream; and she
turned to Norton who was watching her, with another smile so warm and
glad, that the boy's face grew bright to see it. And then there was
Mrs. Laval, coming out on the verandah.
"My dear child!" she exclaimed, folding Matilda in her arms. "My dear
child! I have had hard work to get you; but here you are."
"Mamma, she did not know she was coming," said Norton, "till I came for
her."
"Not know it?" said Mrs. Laval, holding her back to look at her. "Why,
child, you have grown thin!"
"It's the hot weather, Aunt Candy says."
"And pale!" said Mrs. Laval. "Yes, you have; pale and thin. Have you
been ill?"
"No, ma'am," said Matilda; but her eyes were watering now in very
gladness and tenderness.
"Not ill?" said the lady. "And yet you are changed,--I do not know how;
it isn't all thinness, or paleness. What is the matter with you, dear?"
"Nothing--only I am so glad," Matilda managed to say, as Mrs. Laval's
arms again came round her. The eyes of mother and son met expressively.
"I don't like to see people cry for gladness," whispered the lady.
"That is being entirely too glad. Let us go and see where you are to
live while you are with me. Norton, send York up with her box."
Matilda shook herself mentally, and went up-stairs with Mrs. Laval.
Such easy, soft-going stairs! and then the wide light corridor with its
great end window; and then Mrs. Laval went into a room which Matilda
guessed was her own, and through that passed to another, smaller, but
large enough still, where she paused.
"You shall be here," she said; "close by me; so that you cannot feel
lonely."
"Oh, I could not feel lonely," cried Matilda. "I have a room by myself
at home."
"But not far away from other people, I suppose. Your sister is near
you, is she not?"
"Oh, Maria is gone, long ago."
"Gone? What, entirely? Not out of the village?"
"She is in Poughkeepsie. I have not seen her in a great many weeks."
"Was that her own wish?"
"Oh no, ma'am; she was very sorry to go."
"Well, you must have been very sorry too. Now, dear, here are drawers
for you; and see, here is a closet for hanging up things; and here is
your washing closet with hot and cold water; the hot is the right hand
one of these two faucets. And I hope you will be happy here, darling."
She spoke very kindly; so kindly that Matilda did not know how to
answer. I suppose her face answered for her; for Mrs. Laval, instead of
presently leading the way down-stairs again, sat down in a chair by one
of the windows and drew Matilda into her arras. She took off her hat,
and smoothed away the hair from her forehead, and looked in her face,
with eyes that were curiously wistful and noteful of her. And Matilda's
eyes, wondering, went over the mid-country to the blue mountains, as
she thought what a new friend God had given her.
"Are you well, dear?" said the lady's voice in her ear softly.
"Quite well, ma'am."
"What has changed you so since last June?"
"I didn't know that I was changed," Matilda said, wondering again.
"Are you happy, my love?"
The question was put very softly, and yet Matilda started and looked
into Mrs. Laval's eyes to see what her thought was.
"Yes," said the lady, smiling; "I asked you if you were quite happy.
How is it?"
Matilda's eyes went back to the blue mountains. How much ought she to
tell?
"I think--I suppose--I ought to be happy," she said at last.
"I think you always try to do what you think you ought to do; isn't
that so?"
"I _try_," said Matilda in a low voice.
"How happens it, then, dear, that you do not succeed in being happy?"
"I don't know," said Matilda. "I suppose I should, if I were quite
good."
"If you were quite good. Have you so many things to make you happy?"
"I think I have."
"Tell them to me," said Mrs. Laval, pressing her cheek against
Matilda's hair in caressing fashion; "it is pleasant to talk of one's
pleasant things, and I should like to hear of yours. What are they,
love?"
What did the lady mean? Matilda hesitated, but Mrs. Laval was quietly
waiting for her to speak. She had her arms wrapped round Matilda, and
her face rested against her hair, and so she was waiting. It was plain
that Matilda must speak. Still she waited, uncertain how to frame her
words, uncertain how they would be understood; till at last the
consciousness that she had waited a good while, drove her to speak
suddenly.
"Why, ma'am," she said, "the first thing is, that I belong to the Lord
Jesus Christ."
The lady paused now in her turn, and her voice when she spoke was
somewhat husky.
"What is the next thing, dear?"
"Then, I know that God is my Father."
"Go on," said the lady, as Matilda was silent.
"Well--that is it," said Matilda. "I belong to the Lord Jesus; and I
love Him, and I know He loves me; and He takes care of me, and will
take care of me; and whatever I want I ask Him for, and He hears me."
"And does He give you whatever you ask for?" said the lady, in a tone
again changed.
"If He don't, He will give me something better," was the answer.
Maybe Mrs. Laval might have taken up the words from some lips. But the
child on her lap spoke them so quietly, her face was in such a sweet
rest of assurance, and one little hand rose and fell on the window-sill
with such an unconscious glad endorsement of what she said, that the
lady was mute.
"And this makes you happy?" she said, at length.
"Sometimes it does," answered Matilda. "I think it ought always."
"But, my dear little creature, is there nothing else in all the world
to make you feel happy?"
Matilda's words were not ready.
"I don't know," she said. "Sometimes I think there isn't. They're all
away."
The last sentence was given with an unconscious forlornness of
intonation which went to her friend's heart. She clasped Matilda close
at that, and covered her with kisses.
"You won't feel so here?" she said.
But the child's answer was in pantomime. For she had clung to Mrs.
Laval as the lady had clasped her; and Matilda's head nestling in her
neck and softly returning a kiss or two, gave assurance enough.
"All away?" said Mrs. Laval. "Well, I think that too sometimes. You and
I ought to belong to each other."
And then presently, as if she were shaking off all these serious
reflections, she bade Matilda arrange her things comfortably in closet
and drawers; and then when she liked, come down to her. So she went
out, and the man with the little trunk came in and set it in a corner.
Matilda felt in dreamland. It was only like dreamland, to take out her
things, which a few hours ago she had packed in the dismal precincts of
her aunt's house, and place them in such delightful circumstances as
her new quarters afforded. The drawers of her dressing-table were a
marvel of beauty, being of a pale sea-green colour, with rosebuds
painted in the corners. Her little bedstead was of the same colour and
likewise adorned; and so the chairs, and a small stand which held a
glass of flowers. The floor was covered with a pretty white mat, and
light muslin curtains lined with rose, hung before the windows. The
spread on her bed was a snow white Marseilles quilt, Matilda knew that;
and the washing closet was sumptuous in luxury, with its ample towels
and its pretty cake of sweet fragrant soap. Every one of these things
Matilda took note of, as she was obeying Mrs. Laval's advice to put her
things in some order before she came down-stairs. And she was thinking,
also, what 'opportunities' she could possibly have here. There would be
nothing to try her patience or her temper; nothing disagreeable, in
fact, except the thought of going away again. How could she ever bear
_that?_ And then it occurred to Matilda that certainly she had
opportunity and occasion to give thanks; and she knelt down and did it
very heartily; concluding as she rose up, that she would leave the
question of going away till it came nearer the time.
She went with a light heart downstairs then; how odd it was to be at
home in that house, going up and down with her hat off! She passed
through one or two rooms, and found Mrs. Laval at last in a group of
visitors, busy talking to half a dozen at once. Matilda stole out
again, wondering at the different Mrs. Laval down-stairs from the one
who had sat with her in her little room half an hour ago. On the
verandah she met Norton. He greeted her eagerly, and drew her round the
house to a shady angle where they sat down on two of the verandah
chairs.
"Now what shall we do this afternoon?" said Norton. "What would you
like?"
"I like everything. Oh, I like everything!" said Matilda.
"Yes, but _this_ is nothing," said Norton. "Shall we go take a long
drive?"
"If Mrs. Laval goes--I should like it very much."
"If she don't go, we will," said Norton. "The roads are in good order,
and the ponies want exercise. I don't believe mamma will go, for she is
expecting a whole shipload of servants, and Francis will have to go to
the station for them."
"Then he will want the horses, won't he?"
"Not the ponies. He will get somebody's great farm waggon, to bring up
all their goods and things. You and I will go driving, Pink."
"Will _you_ drive?" asked Matilda.
"Certainly."
Matilda thought more than ever that she was in fairyland. She sat
musing over her contentment, when Norton broke in again.
"You are very fond of that aunt of yours, aren't you?"
It was a point blank question. Matilda waited, and then softly said
"No."
"Not?" said Norton. "That's funny. Hasn't she done everything in the
world to make you love her?"
"Please, Norton," said Matilda, "I would rather not talk about her."
"Why not, Pink?" said Norton, showing his white teeth.
"I don't enjoy it."
"Don't you?" said Norton. "That's funny again. I should think you
would."
"Why?" said Matilda, curiously.
"There's so much to say, that's one thing. And then she's so good to
you."
"Who told you she was so good to me?"
"I can see it in your face."
Matilda sat silent, wondering what he meant.
"You can always tell," said Norton. "People can't hide things. I can
see she has been doing no end of kindnesses to you all summer long.
That has made you so fond of her."
Matilda was puzzled and sat silent, not knowing what it was best to
say; and Norton watching her stealthily saw a wistful little face,
tender and pure, and doubtful, that just provoked caresses. He dropped
what was in his hands and fairly took possession of Matilda, kissing
the pale cheeks, as if she were his own particular plaything. It was
unlike most boys, but Norton Laval was independent and manly above most
boys. Matilda was astonished.
"Drive? to be sure we will drive," said Norton, as he let her go. "We
will drive all over creation."
The visitors went away just at this juncture, and the children were
called in to dinner. And after dinner Norton made some of his words
good. Mrs. Laval was not going out; she gave leave to Norton to do what
he pleased, and he took Matilda to drive in the basket phaeton.
"Norton," she said, as they were just setting forth.
"Well?"
"If you would just as lieve, I wish you wouldn't, please, go past Aunt
Candy's."
"Not go past?" said Norton. "Why, Pink?"
"If you would just as lieve, I would rather not."
Norton nodded, and they took another way. But now this was better than
fairyland. Fairyland never knew such a drive, surely. The afternoon was
just right, as Norton had said; there was no dust, and not too much
sun; the roads were in fine order; and they bowled along as if the
ponies had had nothing to do in a great while. Now it was hardly within
the memory of Matilda to have seen the country around Shadywalk as she
saw it this afternoon. Every house had the charm of a picture; every
tree by the roadside seemed to be planted for her pleasure. The meadows
and fields of stubble and patches of ploughed land, were like pieces of
a new world to the long housed child. Norton told her to whom these
fields belonged, which increased the effect, and gave bits of family
history, as he knew it, connected with the names. These meadows
belonged to such a gentleman; his acres counted so many; were good for
so much; taken capital care of. Here were the fields and woods of
such-a-one's farm; _he_ kept cows and sent milk to New York. That house
among the trees was the homestead of one of the old county families;
the place was beautiful; Matilda would see it some day with Mrs. Laval;
that little cottage by the gate was only a lodge. Matilda desired to
know what a lodge was; and upon the explanation, and upon many more
details correlative and co-related, went into musings of her own. But
the sky was so fair and blue; the earth was so rich and sunny; the
touches of sear or yellow leaves here and there on a branch gave such
emphasis to the deep hues still lingering on the vegetation; the
phaeton wheels rolled so smoothly; that Matilda's musings did not know
very well what course to keep.
"Well what are you thinking of?" said Norton after a silence of some
time.
"I was thinking of Lilac Lane, just then."
"Lilac Lane! Do you want to see it?"
"Very much, Norton," said Matilda, gleefully; "but not this afternoon.
I haven't been there in a great, great while."
"I should not think you would want to be ever there again. I can't see
why."
"But then what would become of the poor people?"
"They do not depend upon you," said Norton. "It is not _your_ look-out."
"But--I suppose," Matilda said, slowly, "I suppose, everybody depends
upon somebody."
"Well?" said Norton, laughing.
"You needn't laugh, though, Norton; because, if everybody depends upon
somebody, _then_, everybody has somebody depending upon him, I suppose."
"Who depends upon you?"
"I don't know," said Matilda. "I wish I did."
"Not Mrs. Old-thing there, at any rate. And how can anybody tell, Pink?"
"I don't know," said Matilda; "and so it seems to me the best way would
be to act as if everybody depended on you; and then you would be sure
and make no mistake."
"You would be making mistakes the whole time," said Norton. "It would
be all one grand mistake."
"Ah, but it cannot be a mistake, Norton,"--she stopped suddenly.
"What cannot be a mistake?"
"It cannot be a mistake, to do anything that God has given you to do."
"How can you tell?" said Norton. "It's all like a Chinese puzzle. How
can you tell which piece fits into which?"
"But if every piece fitted, then the pattern would be all right," said
Matilda.
"Yes," said Norton, laughing; "but that is what I say! How can you
tell?"
"Mr. Richmond says, that whenever we have an opportunity to do anything
or to learn anything, the Lord means that we should use it."
"I have a nice opportunity to turn you over on these rocks and smash
the carriage to pieces; but I don't mean to do it."
"You know what I mean, Norton; nobody has an opportunity to do wrong. I
mean, you know, an opportunity to do anything good."
"Well now, Pink," said Norton, drawing the reins a little, and letting
the ponies come to an easy walk,--"see what that would end in. As long
as people have got money, they have got opportunities. I suppose that
is what you mean?"
"Yes," said Matilda. "That is part."
"Well. We might go on and help all the people in Lilac Lane, mightn't
we? and then we could find plenty more to help somewhere else; and we
could go on, using our opportunities, till we had nothing to live upon
our selves. That is what it must come to, if you don't stop somewhere.
We should have to sell the carriages and the ponies, and keep two or
three servants instead of eight; and mamma would have to stop wearing
what she wears now; and by and by we should want help ourselves. How
would you like that? Don't you see one must stop somewhere?"
"Yes," said Matilda. "But what puzzles me is, where ought one to stop?
Mr. Richmond says we ought to use all our opportunities."
"If we can," said Norton.
"But, Norton, what we _can't_, is not an opportunity."
"That's a fact!" said Norton, laughing. "I didn't know you were so
sharp, Pink."
"I should like to ask Mr. Richmond more about it," said Matilda.
"Ask common sense!" said Norton. "Well, you don't want to go to Lilac
Lane to-day. Is there anywhere you do want to go?"
"No. Oh yes, Norton. I _should_ like to stop and see if Mr. Richmond
has got home, and to ask Miss Redwood a question. If you would just as
lieve."
"Where does Miss Redwood live?"
"Oh, she is Mr. Richmond's housekeeper."
"All right," said Norton. And then the gray ponies trotted merrily on,
crossed a pretty bridge over a stream, and turned their faces westward.
By and by the houses of the village began scatteringly to appear; then
the road grew into a well-built up street; the old cream-coloured
church with its deep porch hove in sight; and the ponies turned just
short of it and trotted up the lane to the parsonage door. Norton
jumped down and tied the horses, and helped Matilda out of the carriage.
"Are you going in?" she asked. But it appeared that Norton was going
in. So he pulled the iron knocker, and presently Miss Redwood came to
the door.
"Yes, he's home," she said, almost before they could ask her; "but he
ain't at home. I 'spect he'll take his meals now standin' or runnin'
for the next six weeks. That's the way he has to pay for rest, when he
gets it, which ain't often neither. It tires me, just to see him go;
I'll tell him you called."
"But mayn't we come in, Miss Redwood? just for a minute?"
"La, yes, child," said the housekeeper, making way for them; "come in,
both on ye. I didn't s'pose you was wantin' me; I've got out o' the way
of it since the minister's been away; my callers has fell off somehow.
It's odd, there don't one in twenty want to see me when I'm alone in
the house, and could have time in fact to speak to 'em. That's the way
things is in the world; there don't nothin' go together that's well
matched, 'cept folks' horses; and they 're out o' my line. Come in, and
tell me what you want to say. Where have ye come from?"
"I have been having a delightful ride, Miss Redwood, ever so far,
farther than ever I went before."
"Down by Mr. James's place and the mill, and round by Hillside," Norton
explained.
The housekeeper opened her pantry and brought out a loaf of rich
gingerbread, yet warm from the oven, which she broke up and offered to
the children.
"It's new times, I 'spect, ain't it?"
"It's new times to have such good gingerbread," said Norton. "This is
prime."
"Have you ever made it since I showed ye?" Miss Redwood asked Matilda.
"No--only once--I hadn't time."
"When a child like you says she hain't time to play, somebody has got
something that don't belong to him," said the housekeeper.
"O Miss Redwood, I wanted to know, what about Lilac Lane?"
"Well, what about it?"
"Did you do as you said you would? you know, last time I asked you, you
hadn't got the things together."
"Yes, I know," said the housekeeper. "Well, I've fixed it."
"You did all as we said we would have it?" exclaimed Matilda, eagerly.
"As you said _you_ would have it. 'Twarn't much of it my doing, child.
Yes; Sally Eldridge don't know herself."
"Was she pleased?"
"Well, 'pleased' ain't to say much. I got Sabriny Rogers to clean the
house first. They thought I was crazy, I do believe. '_Clean_ that 'ere
old place?' says she. 'Why, yes,' says I; 'don't it want cleanin'?'
'But what on airth's the use?' says she. 'Well,' says I, 'I don't know;
but we'll try.' So she went at it; and the first day she didn't do no
more than to fling her file round, and you could see a spot where it
had lighted; that's all. 'Sabriny,' says I, 'that ain't what we call
cleanin' in _my_ country; and if I pay you for cleanin' it's all I'll
do; but I'll not pay nobody for just lookin' at it.' So next time it
was a little better; and then I made her go over the missed places, and
we got it real nice by the time I had done. And then Sally looked like
somethin' that didn't belong there, and we began upon _her_. She was
wonderful taken up with seein' Sabriny and the scrubbin' brush go
round; and then she begun to cast eyes down on herself, as if she
wished it could reform her. Well, I did it all in one day. I had in the
bedstead, and put it up, and had a comfortable bed fetched and laid on
it; and I made it up with the new sheets. 'Who's goin' to sleep there?'
says Sally Eldridge, at last. 'You,' says I. '_Me?_' says she; and she
cast one o' them doubtful looks down at herself; doubtful, and kind o'
pitiful; and I knew she'd make no objection to whatever I'd please to
do with her, and she didn't. I got her into a tub o' water, and washed
her and dressed her; and while I was doin' that, the folks in the other
room had put in the table and the other things, and brought the flour
and cheese, and that; and laid a little rag carpet on the floor, and
when Sally was ready I marched her out. And she sat down and looked
round her, and looked round her; and I watched to see what was comin'.
And then she begun to cry."
"To cry!" Matilda echoed.
"The tears come drop, drop, down on her new calico; it fitted nice and
looked real smart; and then, the first word she said was, 'I ain't a
good woman.' 'I know you ain't,' says I; 'but you kin be.' So she
looked round and round her at everything; and then, the next word she
said was, 'The dominie kin come now.' Well! I thought that was good
enough for one day; so I give her her tea and come home to my own an
ashamed woman."
"Why, Miss Redwood?"
"'Cause I hadn't done it ages ago, dear, but it was left for you to
show me how."
"And is Mrs. Eldridge really better?"
"Has twice as much sense as ever she showed when she was in all that
muss. I am sure, come to think of it, I don't wonder. Things outside
works in, somehow. I believe, if I didn't keep my window panes clear, I
should begin to grow deceitful--or melancholy. And folks can't have
clean hands and a dirty house."
"Thank you, Miss Redwood," said Matilda, rising.
"Well, you ain't goin' now? The minister 'll be in directly."
"I'll come another time," said Matilda. "I'm afraid Mrs. Laval would be
anxious."
"La, she don't mind when her horses come home, I'll engage."
"But she might mind when _we_ come home," said Matilda. "We have been
out a great while."
"Out? why, you don't never mean _you_ come from Mrs. Laval's'?"
"Yes, she does," said Norton. "We've got her."
"Hm! Well, I just wish you'd keep her," said the housekeeper. "She's as
poor as a peascod in a drouth."
At which similitude Norton laughed all the way home.