Produced by Daniel Fromont. HTML version by Al Haines.
[Transcriber's note: This is the third of a series of four novels by
Susan Warner, all of which are in the Project Gutenberg collection:
1. What She Could
2. Opportunities
3. The House in Town
4. Trading]
THE
HOUSE IN TOWN.
A Sequel to "Opportunities."
BY
THE AUTHOR OF
"THE WIDE WIDE WORLD."
"No man that warreth entangleth himself with the affairs of this life;
that he may please him who hath chosen him to be a soldier."--2 TIM.
ii. 4.
NEW YORK:
ROBERT CARTER AND BROTHERS,
530 BROADWAY.
1872.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by
ROBERT CARTER AND BROTHERS,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington.
CAMBRIDGE:
PRESS OF JOHN WILSON AND SON.
THE HOUSE IN TOWN.
CHAPTER I.
"Oh Norton! Oh Norton! do you know what has happened?"
Matilda had left the study and rushed out into the dining-room to tell
her news, if indeed it were news to Norton. She had heard his step.
Norton seemed in a preoccupied state of mind.
"Yes!" he said. "I know that confounded shoemaker has left something in
the heel of my boot which is killing me."
Matilda was not like some children. She could wait; and she waited,
while Norton pulled off his boot, made examinations into the interior,
and went stoutly to work with penknife and file. In the midst of it he
looked up, and asked,--
"What has happened to _you_, Pink?"
"Then don't you know yet, Norton?"
"Of course not. I would fine all shoemakers who leave their work in
such a slovenly state! If I didn't limp all the way from the bridge
here, it was because I wouldn't,--not because I wouldn't like to."
"Why not limp, if it saved your foot?" inquired Matilda.
"_You_ would, Pink, wouldn't you?"
"Why, yes; certainly I would."
"Well, you might," said Norton. "But did you ever read the story of the
Spartan boy and the fox?"
"No."
"He stole a fox," said Norton, working away at the inside of his boot,
which gave him some trouble.
"But you haven't stolen a fox."
"I should think not," said Norton. "The boy carried the fox home under
his cloak; and it was not a tame fox, Pink, by any means, and did not
like being .carried, I suppose; and it cut and bit and tore at the boy
all the while, under his cloak; so that by the time he got the fox
home, it had made an end of him."
"Why didn't he let the fox go?"
"Ah! why didn't he?" said Norton. "He was a boy, and he would have been
ashamed."
"And you would have been ashamed to limp in the street, Norton?"
"For a nail in my boot. What is a man good for, that can't stand
anything?"
"I should not have been ashamed at all."
"You're a girl," said Norton approvingly. "It is a different thing.
What is your news, Pink?"
"But Norton, I don't see why it is a different thing. Why should not a
woman be as brave as a man, and as strong,--in one way?"
"I suppose, because she is not as strong in the other way. She hasn't
got it to do, Pink, that's all. But a man, or a boy, that can't bear
anything without limping, is a muff; that's the whole of it."
"A muff's a nice thing," said Matilda laughing.
"Not if it's a boy," said Norton. "Go on with your news, Pink. What is
it?"
"I wonder if you know. Oh Norton, do you know what your mother and Mr.
Richmond have been talking about?"
"I wasn't there," said Norton. "If you were, you may tell me."
"I was not there. But Mr. Richmond has been talking to me about it.
Norton,"--and Matilda's voice sank,--"do you know, they have been
arranging, and your mother wishes it, that I should _stay_ with her?"
Matilda spoke the last words very softly, in the manner of one who
makes a communication of somewhat awful character; and in truth it had
a kind of awe for her. Evidently not for Norton. He had almost finished
his boot, and he kept on with his filing, as coolly as if what Matilda
said had no particular interest or novelty. She would have been
disappointed, but that she had caught one gleam from Norton's eye which
flashed like an electric spark. She just caught it, and then Norton
went on calmly,--
"I think that is a very sensible arrangement, Pink. I must say, it is
not the first time it has occurred to me."
"Then you knew it before?"
"I did not know they had settled it," said Norton, still coolly.
"But you knew it was talked about? O Norton! why didn't you tell me?"
Norton looked up, smiled, dropped his boot, and at once took his new
little sister in his arms and clasped her right heartily.
"What for should I tell you, Pink?" he said, kissing Matilda's eyes,
where the tears of that incipient disappointment had gathered.
"How could you _help_ telling me?"
"Ah, that is another thing," said Norton. "You couldn't have helped it,
could you?"
"But it is true now, Norton."
"Ay, it is true; and you belong to mamma and me now, Pink; and to
nobody else in the wide world. Isn't that jolly?"
"And to Mr. Richmond," Matilda added.
"Not a bit to Mr. Richmond; not a fraction," said Norton. "He may be
your guardian and your minister if you like; and I like him too; he's a
brick; but you belong to nobody in the whole world but mamma and me."
"Well, Norton," said Matilda, with a sigh of pleasure--"I'm glad."
"Glad!" said Norton. "Now come,--let us sit right down and see some of
the things we'll do."
"Yes. But no, Norton; I must get Mr. Richmond's supper. I shall not
have many times more to do that; Miss Redwood will be soon home, you
know."
"And we too, I hope. I declare, Pink, I believe you like getting
supper. Here goes! What is to do?"
"Nothing, for you, Norton."
"Kettle on?"
"On ages ago. You may see if it is boiling."
"How can an iron kettle boil? If you'll tell me that."
"Why, the water boils that is in it. The kettle is put for the water."
"And what right have you to put the kettle for the water? At that rate,
one might do all sorts of things--Now Pink, how can I tell if the water
boils? The steam is coming out of the nose."
"_That's_ no sign, Norton. Does it sing?"
"Sing!" said Norton. "I never learned kettle music. No, I don't think
it does. It bubbles; the water in it I mean."
Matilda came in laughing. "No," she said, "it has stopped singing; and
now it boils. The steam is coming out from under the cover. _That's_ a
sign. Now, Norton, if you like, you may make a nice plate of toast, and
I'll butter it. Mr. Richmond likes toast, and he is tired to-night, I
know."
"I can't make a plate," said Norton; "but I'll try for the toast. Is it
good for people that are tired?"
"Anything comfortable is, Norton."
"I wouldn't be a minister!" said Norton softly, as he carefully turned
and toasted the bread,--"I would not be a minister, for as much as you
could give me."
"Why, Norton? I think I would--if I was a man."
"He has no comfort of his life," said Norton. "This sort of a minister
doesn't have. He is always going, going; and running to see people that
want him, and stupid people too; he has to talk to them, all the same
as if they were clever, and put up with them; and he's always working
at his sermons and getting broken off. What comfort of his life does
Mr. Richmond have now? except when you and I make toast for him?"
"O Norton, I think he has a great deal."
"I don't see it."
Matilda stood wondering, and then smiled; the comfort of _her_ life was
so much just then. The slices of toast were getting brown and buttered,
and made a savory smell all through the kitchen; and now Matilda made
the tea, and the flowery fragrance of that added another item to what
seemed the great stock of pleasure that afternoon. As Miss Redwood had
once said, the minister knew a cup of good tea when he saw it; and it
was one of the few luxuries he ever took pains to secure; and the
sweetness of it now in the little parsonage kitchen was something very
delicious. Then Matilda went and put her head in at the study door.
"Tea is ready, Mr. Richmond."
But the minister did not immediately obey the summons, and the two
children stood behind their respective chairs, waiting. Matilda's face
was towards the western windows.
"Are you very miserable, Pink?" said Norton, watching her.
"I am so happy, Norton!"
"I want to get home now," said Norton, drumming upon his chair. "I want
you there. You belong to mamma and me, and to nobody else in the whole
world, Pink; do you know that?"
Except Mr. Richmond--was again in Matilda's thoughts; but she did not
say it this time. It was nothing against Norton's claim.
"Where _is_ the minister?" Norton went on. "You called him."
"O he has got some stupid body with him, keeping him from tea."
"That is what I said," Norton repeated. "I wouldn't live such a
life--not for money."
Mr. Richmond came however at this moment, looking not at all miserable;
glanced at the two happy faces with a bright eye; then for an instant
they were still, while the sweet willing words of prayer went up from
lips and heart to bless the board.
"What is it that you would not do for money, Norton?" Mr. Richmond
asked as he received his cup of tea.
Norton hesitated and coloured. Matilda spoke for him.
"Mr. Richmond, may we ask you something?"
"Certainly!" said the minister, with a quick look at the two faces.
"If you wouldn't think it wrong for us to ask.--Is the--I mean, do you
think,--the life of a minister is a very hard one?"
"So that is the question, is it?" said Mr. Richmond smiling. "Is Norton
thinking of taking the situation?"
"Norton thinks it cannot be a comfortable life, Mr. Richmond; and I
thought he was mistaken."
"What do you suppose a minister's business is, Norton? that is the
first consideration. You must know what a man has to do, before you can
judge whether it is hard to do it."
"I thought I knew, sir."
"Yes, I suppose so; but it don't follow that you do."
"I know part," said Norton. "A minister has to preach sermons, and
marry people, and baptize children, and read prayers at funerals and--"
"Go on," said Mr. Richmond.
"I was going to say, it seems to me, he has to talk to everybody that
wants to talk to him."
"How do you get along with that difficulty?" said Mr. Richmond. "It
attacks other people besides ministers."
"I dodge them," said Norton. "But a minister cannot,--can he, sir?"
Mr. Richmond laughed.
"Well, Norton," he said, "you have given a somewhat sketchy outline of
a minister's life; but my question remains yet,--what is the business
of his life. You would not say that planing and sawing are the business
of a carpenter's life--would you?"
"No, sir."
"What then?"
"Building houses, and ships, and barns, and bridges."
"And a tailor's life is not cutting and snipping, but making clothes.
So my commission is not to make sermons. What is it?"
Norton looked at a loss, and expectant; Matilda enjoying.
"The same that was given to the apostle Paul, and no worse. I am sent
to people 'to open their eyes, and to turn them from darkness to light,
and from the power of Satan to God, that they may receive forgiveness
of sins, and inheritance among them which are sanctified.'"
"But I do not understand, Mr. Richmond," said Norton, after a little
pause.
"What?"
"If you will excuse me. I do not understand that. Can you open people's
eyes?"
"He who sends me does that, by means of the message which I carry. 'How
can they believe on him of whom they have not heard?'"
"I see--" said Norton very respectfully.
"You see, I am the King's messenger. And my business is, to carry the
King's message. It is possible to make sermons, and not do that."
"I don't think I ever heard the message, or anything that sounded like
a message, in our church," said Norton.
"Do you know what the message is?"
Norton looked up from his toast and seemed a little taken aback.
"You might have heard it without knowing it"
"Might I? What is the message, sir?"
"This is it. That God wants and calls for the love of every human
heart; and that on his part he loves us so well, as to give his own Son
to die for us, that we might be saved through him."
"Why to _die_ for us?" inquired Norton.
"Because we all deserved to die, and he took our place. 'He tasted
death for every man.' So for you and for me. What do we owe to one who
gave his life to ransom ours?"
"I see,"--said Norton again thoughtfully. "But Mr. Richmond, people do
not always hear the message--do they?"
"You can tell," said Mr. Richmond, shortly.
"I see!" repeated Norton. "It isn't making sermons. I don't see,
though, why it isn't a hard life."
"That requires another explanation, but it is not difficult. How would
one naturally feel, Norton, towards another, who by his own suffering
and death had saved him when he was bound to die?"
"You mean, who had done it on purpose?" said Norton.
"On purpose. Just because he loved the lost one."
"Why," said Norton, "if the man had any heart in him"--
"Well? What then?"
"Why, he wouldn't think that his _hand_ was his own."
"He would belong to his redeemer?"
"Yes, sir."
"So I think, Norton. Then, tell me, do you think it would be hard work
to do anything to please or serve such a friend? Would even hardships
seem hard?"
"I can't think what _would_ seem hard," said Norton eagerly.
But then a silence fell upon the little party. Matilda had opened all
her ears to hear Norton speak in this manner; she was excited; she
almost thought that he was about to enter into the life he seemed to
understand so well; but Mr. Richmond went on with his tea quite
composedly, and Norton was a little embarrassed. What was the matter?
Matilda wished some one would speak again; but Mr. Richmond sent his
cup to be filled, and stirred it, and took another piece of toast, and
Norton never raised his eyes from his plate.
"That idea is new to you, my boy?" said Mr. Richmond at last, smiling.
"I never--well, yes;--I do not understand those things," said Norton.
"You understood _this?_"
"Your words; yes, sir."
"And the thing which my words meant?"
"I suppose--yes, I suppose I do," said Norton.
"Do you understand the bearing of it on all of us three at the table."
Norton looked up inquiringly.
"You comprehend how it touches me?"
"Yes, sir,"--Norton answered with profound respect in eye and voice.
"And Matilda?"
The boy's eye went quick and sharp to the little figure at the head of
the table. What his look meant, Matilda could not tell; and he did not
speak.
"You comprehend how it touches Matilda?" Mr. Richmond repeated.
"No, sir," was answered rather stoutly. It had very much the air of not
wanting to know.
"You should understand, if you are to live in the same house together.
The same Friend has done the same kindness for Matilda that he has done
for me; he has given himself to death that she might live; and she has
heard it and believed it, and obeyed his voice and become his servant.
What sort of life ought she to live?"
Norton stared at Mr. Richmond, not in the least rudely, but like one
very much discomfited. He looked as if he were puzzling to find his way
out of a trap. But Matilda clapped her hands together, exclaiming,
"I am so glad Norton understands that! I never could make him
understand it."
"Why you never tried," said Norton.
"O yes, I did, Norton; in different ways. I suppose I never said it so
that you could understand it."
"I don't understand it now," said Norton.
"O Mr. Richmond! don't he?" said Matilda.
"Tell him," said the minister. "Perhaps you put it too cautiously. Tell
him in words that he cannot mistake, what sort of life you mean to
lead."
The little girl hesitated and looked at Norton. Norton, like one acting
under protest, looked at her. They waited, questioning each other's
faces.
"It is that, Norton," Matilda said at last very gently, and with a sort
of tenderness in tone and manner which spoke for her. "It is just that
you said. I do not think that my _hand_ is my own."
Norton looked at the little hand unconsciously extended to point her
words, as if he would have liked to confiscate it; he made no reply,
but turned to his supper again. The conversation had taken a turn he
did not welcome.
"We have not done with the subject," Mr. Richmond went on. "You see how
it touches me now, and how it touches Matilda. You know by your own
shewing, what sort of life she ought to lead; and so you will know how
you ought to help her and not hinder her in it. But Norton,--how does
it touch you?"
The boy was not ready with an answer. Then he said,--
"I don't see that it touches me any way, sir."
"On honour?" said Mr. Richmond gently. "That same Friend has done the
same kindness for you."
Norton looked as if he wished it were not true; and as if very
unwilling to admit anything.
"I wish you could hear what I hear," said Mr. Richmond. "So many
voices!--"
"What, sir?" asked both the children at once.
"So many voices!" repeated Mr. Richmond. "I hear the voice of love now,
from the skies, speaking that soft, sweet 'Come!' in the heart. I hear
my own voice giving the message. I hear the promise to them who seek
for glory, honour, and immortality. And I hear the sound of the harps
of those who have a new song to sing, which none can learn but the
hundred and forty and four thousand which have been redeemed from the
earth. And I hear the rejoicing in heaven of those who will say, 'Thou
wast slain, and hast redeemed us to God by thy blood, out of every
kindred and tongue and people and nation; and hast made us unto our God
kings and priests, and we shall reign on the earth.' And then there is
a throne and a judgment seat, and I hear a voice that says, 'Well done,
good and faithful servant; enter thou into the joy of thy Lord.'--"
Mr. Richmond's voice had fallen a little; his eyes were cast down.
Norton's eyes were downcast too, and his face; it did not respond, as
Matilda's face did; and when the party rose from table a minute or two
afterwards, Norton made use of his liberty to quit the room and the
house. Matilda brought her tub of water to wash up the cups and plates.
Mr. Richmond had gone off to his study.
The little girl touched the china with soft delicate fingers; lifted
each piece and set it down with gentle noiselessness; the little clink
of the china keeping measure, perhaps, with the thoughts which moved
and touched, so gently, in her heart. Presently Mr. Richmond came out
again. He walked up and down the little room several times; it was a
small walk, for a very few of his steps took him from one corner to the
other; then he came and stood beside the table where Matilda was at
work. The child stopped and looked up at him wistfully. Their eyes met;
and a smile of much love and confidence was exchanged between the two.
"Mr. Richmond,"--said Matilda, "isn't it difficult, sometimes, to
_keep_ hearing those voices?"
You could see the light spring into the young man's eyes; but he
answered very quietly, "Why, Matilda?"
"I think it is difficult," the child repeated.
"You find it so?"
"I think, sometimes, Mr. Richmond, I don't hear them at all."
"It is not necessary to be always thinking about them."
"No, I know that; but sometimes I seem to get out of the sound of them."
"How comes that?"
"I don't know. I think it must be because I am hearing other voices so
much."
"You are right." Mr. Richmond began his pacing up and down again.
Matilda stood with a cup in her hands which she had been washing, the
water dripping from her fingers and it into the tub.
"How can I help it, Mr. Richmond?"
Mr. Richmond was thinking perhaps of Fenelon's words: "O how rare is
it, to find a soul still enough to hear God speak!"--but he did not
quote them to the child. He stood still again.
"Tilly, when one gets out of hearing of those voices, the enemy has a
good chance to whisper to us; and he never loses a chance. That was
what happened to Eve in the garden of Eden."
"How can I do, Mr. Richmond?"
"I should say, dear, don't get out of hearing of them."
"But, sometimes"--Matilda paused in difficulty. "Sometimes I am
thinking of so many other things, and my head gets full; and then I do
not know where I am."
Mr. Richmond smiled. "You could not have given a better description of
the case," he said. "But Matilda, when you find that you do not know
where you are, run away, shut yourself up, and find out. It isn't safe
to get out of hearing of the Lord's voice."
"O Mr. Richmond!" said the child. "I want to be where I can hear it all
the time."
"There is one way. Don't you know it?"
"No, sir; I don't think I do."
"My dear child, it is very simple. Only obey his voice when you hear
it, and it will always be with you. Obedience is the little key that
unlocks the whole mystery,--the whole mystery," said Mr. Richmond,
beginning to walk up and down again. "When you hear ever so soft a
whisper in your heart, saying, '_This_ is the way,' follow there; and
so the Lord will lead you always."
Mr. Richmond went off to his study, but paused again to say, "Study the
twenty third verse of the fourteenth chapter of John, Matilda; and take
that for your rule."
Matilda went about softly, putting the china in the pantry, making the
table clean, hanging up her towel and putting away her tub. Just as she
had finished, Mr. Richmond opened the door. He had his hat and great
coat on.
"Tilly, look after my fire, will you?" he said. "I shall be gone some
time probably."