When Matilda came down stairs the next morning to get breakfast, she
found Miss Redwood in the kitchen. The fire was going, the kitchen was
warm; Miss Redwood was preparing some potatoes for baking.
"Good morning!" said she. "Here I am again. It does seem funny to be
washing the potatoes to put in the stove, just as if folks hadn't been
sick and dying, you may say, and getting well, and all that, since I
touched 'em last. Well! life's a queer thing; and it don't go by the
rule of three, not by no means."
"What rule does it go by?" said Matilda, leaning on the table and
looking up at the housekeeper.
"La! I don't know," said Miss Redwood. "I know what I've been workin'
by all these weeks, pretty much; I kept at my multiplication table; but
I couldn't get no further most days than the very beginning--'Once one
is one.' I tried hard to make it out two; but 'twas beyond me. I've
learned that much, anyhow."
"Didn't Mrs. Laval help?"
"She helped all she could, poor critter, till she was 'most beat out. I
declare I was sorry for her, next to the sick ones. She did all she
could. She turned in to cook; and she didn't know no more about it than
I know about talkin' any language beside my own. Not so much; for I kin
tell French when I hear it; but she didn't know boiling water."
"What can I do to help you, Miss Redwood?" Matilda asked, suddenly
remembering the present.
"There aint nothin' to do, child, 'cept what I'm doin'. The breakfast
table is sot. I guess you've had _your_ hands full, as well as the rest
of us. But I declare you've kept things pretty straight. I don't let
the butter set in the pantry, though; it goes down cellar when I'm to
home."
"That kitchen pantry is cold, Miss Redwood."
"It's too cold, child. Butter hadn't ought to be where it kin freeze,
or get freezing hard; it takes the sweetness out of it. You didn't know
that. And the broom and pan I left at the head of the coal stairs. They
ain't there now."
Matilda fetched them.
"The minister said you kept things in train, as if you'd been older,"
Miss Redwood went on. "I was always askin'; and he made me feel pretty
comfortable. He said _he_ was."
"We have had a very nice time, Miss Redwood. We hadn't the least
trouble about anything."
"Trouble was our meat and drink down yonder," said Miss Redwood. "I
thought two o' them poor furriners would surely give up; but they
didn't; and it's over with. Praise the Lord! And I'm as glad to be home
again as if I had found a fortin. But I was glad to be there, too. When
a man--or a woman--knows she's in her place, she's just in the
pleasantest spot she kin get to; so I think. And I knew I was in my
place there. But dear, Mrs. Laval thinks your place is with her now; so
she bid me tell you to be ready."
"When?"
"Well, some time along in the morning she will send the carriage to
bring you, she said."
"Has Francis come back?"
"Who's Francis?"
"I mean the coachman."
"I don't know nobody's names," said Miss Redwood; "'cept the men I took
care of; and I guess I had my own names for them. I couldn't pucker my
mouth to call them after Mrs. Laval."
"Why, what did you call them?" said Matilda. "I know what their names
were; they were Jules and Pierre Failly. What did you call them?"
"It didn't make no odds," said Miss Redwood, "so long as they knew I
was speaking to 'em; and _that_ they knew; 'cause when I raised one
man's head up, he knew I warn't speaking to the other man. I called one
of 'em Johnson, and 'tother Peter. It did just as well. I dare say
now," said Miss Redwood, with a bit of a smile on her face, "they
thought Johnson meant beef tea, and Peter meant a spoonful of medicine.
It did just as well. Come, dear; you may go get the coffee canister for
me; for now I'm in a hurry. There ain't coffee burned for breakfast."
It was Matilda's last breakfast at the parsonage. She could have been
sorry, only that she was so glad. After breakfast she had her bag to
pack; and a little later the grey ponies trotted round the sweep and
drew up at the door. Matilda had watched them turning in at the gate
and coming down the lane, stepping so gayly to the sound of their
bells; and they drew a dainty light sleigh covered with a wealth of
fine buffalo robes. The children bade good bye to Mr. Richmond, and
jumped in, and tucked the buffalo robes round them; the ponies shook
their heads and began to walk round the sweep again; then getting into
the straight line of the lane, away they went with a merry pace, making
the snow fly.
It seemed to Matilda that such a feeling of luxury had never come over
her as she felt then. The sleigh was so easy; the seats were so roomy;
the buffalo robes were so soft and warm and elegant, and she was so
happy. Norton pulled one of the robes up so as almost to cover her; no
cold could get at her, for her feet were in another. Furs over and
under her, she had nothing to do but to look and be whirled along over
the smooth snow to the tune of the sleigh bells. It was charming, to
look and see what the snow had done with the world. Thick, thick
mantles of it lay upon the house roofs; how could it all stay there?
The trees were loaded, bending their heads and drooping their branches
under the weight which was almost too much for them. The fences had a
pretty dressing, like the thick white frosting of a cake; the fields
and gardens and roadway lay hidden under the soft warm carpet that was
spread everywhere. But the snow clouds were all gone; and the clearest
bright blue sky looked down through the white-laden tree branches.
"How much there is of it!" said Matilda.
"What?" said Norton.
"Why, I mean snow, Norton."
"Oh! Yes; there is apt to be a good deal of it," said Norton, "when it
falls as hard as it can all one day and two nights."
"But Norton, to think that all that snow is just those elegant little
star feathers piled up; all over the fields and house roofs, a foot and
a half thick, it is all those feathery stars!"
"Well," said Norton; "what of it?"
"Why it is wonderful," said Matilda. "It almost seems like a waste,
doesn't it? only that couldn't be."
"A waste?" said Norton. "A waste of what?"
"Why nobody sees, or thinks, that the street is covered with such
beautiful things--the street and the fields and the houses; people only
think it is snow, and that's all; when it is just little wonders of
beauty, of a great many sorts too. It seems very strange."
"Only to you," said Norton. "It'll be rich to shew you things."
"But why do you suppose it is so, Norton? I should like to ask Mr.
Richmond."
"Mr. Richmond couldn't tell," said Norton.
"It must be that God is so rich," Matilda went on reverently. "So
rich!" she repeated, looking at the piled-up burden of snow along the
house roofs of the street. "But then, Norton, he must care to have
things beautiful."
"Pink!" exclaimed Norton, looking at his little companion with an air
half of amusement and half of something like vexation.
"Well, don't you think so? Because nobody sees those white feathers of
frost piled up there, and these that the horses are treading under
feet. They do nobody any good."
"It does you good to know they are there," said Norton.
"That's true!" exclaimed Matilda. "O I'm very glad to know about them;
and I am very glad the snow is so wonderful; and I am glad to feel that
God is so rich, and that he has made things so beautiful."
There was something in this speech that jarred upon Norton; something,
though he could not have told what it was, that seemed to separate
Matilda from him; there was a sweet, innocent kind of _appropriation_
which he could not share; it told of relations in which Matilda stood
and to which he was a stranger. Norton liked nothing that seemed like
division between them; but he did not find anything just then to say,
and remained silent; while Matilda rode along in a kind of glorious
vision that was half heavenly and half earthly. That was this snowy
morning to her. Covered up warm in the furs of the sleigh, she leaned
back and used her eyes; rejoicing in the white brilliance of the earth
and the sunny blue of the heaven, and finding strange food for joy in
them; or what appears strange to those who do not know it. The sleigh
rushed along, past houses and shops and the familiar signs hung out
along the street; then reaching the corner, whirled round to the left.
Matilda's home, until now, had always lain the other way. She turned
her head and looked back, up the street.
"What is it?" Norton asked.
"Nothing--except that I am so glad not to be going that way."
"No," said Norton. "Not that way any more. We have got you, Pink."
"I don't understand it," said Matilda. "It makes me dizzy when I think
of it."
"Here we are!" cried Norton, as the horses wheeled in through the iron
gate. "It's all snow, Pink; it will be too late to plant our tulips and
hyacinths."
But even that was forgotten, as the sleigh stopped, and Norton helped
Matilda out from under the furs, and she realized that she had come
home. Home; yes, when her feet stepped upon the marble pavement of the
hall she said to herself that this was _home_. It was very strange. But
Mrs. Laval's warm arms were not strange; they were easy to understand;
she would hardly let Matilda out of them, and kissed her and kissed
her. The kisses were instead of words; _they_ said that Matilda had
come home.
"Run up now, dear, to your room," she said at last, "and get your wraps
off. I have somebody here to see me on business; but I will come to you
by and by."
Dismissed with more kisses, Matilda went up the stairs like one in a
dream. Sharp and snowy as the world was without, here, inside the hall
door, it was an atmosphere of summer. Soft warm air was around her as
she mounted the stairs; in Mrs. Laval's room a wood fire was burning;
in her own, oh joy! there was a little coal fire in the grate; all
bright and blazing. Matilda slowly drew off her things and looked
around her. The pretty green furniture with the rosebuds painted on it,
this was her own now; a warm carpet covered the mat; the bed with its
luxurious belongings was something she had not now to say good bye to;
the time of parting had not come after all; would never come, as long
as she lived. Slowly Matilda pulled off hood and gloves and moccasins,
and went to the window. It was her own window! The hills and the
country in view from it were hers to look at whenever she pleased. Mrs.
Candy's bell could not sound there to break in upon anything. The child
was so happy that she was almost afraid; it seemed too good to be
really true and lasting. Gradually, as she stood there by the window,
looking at what seemed to her "the treasures of the snow," it came to
her mind what she had been thinking about that; the myriads of
wonderfully fashioned, exquisite crystal stars, for every one of which
God took care. Then she remembered, "the hairs of your head are all
numbered;" and if so, of course no event that happened to any of God's
children could be without meaning or carelessly sent. And also, if he
was so rich in the beauty and perfectness of the snow supply for the
earth, he was rich toward his children too, and would and could give
them what were the best things for them. But then came the question; if
he had brought a child like her into these new circumstances, into such
a new home, what did he mean her to do with it? what use should she
make of it? what effect was it intended to have upon her and upon her
life? This seemed a very great question to Matilda. She softly shut her
door and took out her Bible and kneeled down beside it. She would study
and pray till she found out.
It happened well that Mrs. Laval's man of business kept her a good
while. All that while Matilda kept up her study and search.
Nevertheless she was puzzled. It was a question too large for her. All
she could make out amounted to this; that she must be careful not to
forget whose child she was; that before Mrs. Laval she owed love and
obedience to her Saviour; that she must be on the watch for
opportunities; and not allow her new circumstances to distract or
divert her from them or make her unfitted for them when they came.
"I think I must watch," was Matilda's conclusion. "I might forget.
Norton will want me to do things,--and Mrs. Laval will want me to do
other things,--perhaps other people yet. If I keep to Mr. Richmond's
rule--'Whether ye eat or drink, or whatsoever ye do, do all to the Lord
Jesus,'--I shall be sure to be right; and He will teach me."
Some very earnest prayer ended in this conclusion. Then the question
came up in Matilda's mind, what opportunities were likely to spring out
of her new, changed circumstances? She could not tell; she found she
could do nothing with that question; she could only leave it, and
watch, and wait.
She opened her door then, to be ready for Mrs. Laval's coming; and
presently the soft step and gentle rustle of drapery reminded Matilda
anew that she had done for ever with Mrs. Candy's plump footfall and
buckram skirts.
"My darling," said Mrs. Laval, "you have been all this time alone!" She
took Matilda in her arms and sat down with her, looking at her as one
examines a new, precious possession.
"You smile, as if being alone was nothing very dreadful," she went on.
"I don't think it is," said Matilda.
"I do! But you and I will not be alone any more, darling, will we?
Norton is a boy; he must go and come; but you are my own--my little
daughter!--yes, now and always."
She clasped Matilda in her arms and kissed her with lips that trembled
very much; trembled so much that Matilda was afraid she would break
into a passion of tears again; but that was restrained. After a little
she sat back, and stroking Matilda's hair from her brow, asked softly,--
"And what do _you_ say to it, Matilda?"
Matilda tried to find words and could not; trembled; was very near
crying for her own part; finally answered in the only way. In her turn
she threw her arms round Mrs. Laval's neck; in her turn kissed cheeks
and lips, giving herself up for the first time to the feeling of the
new relationship between them. The lady did not let her go, but sat
still with her arms locked around Matilda and Matilda's head in her
neck and both of them motionless, for a good while.
"Will you call me mamma, some day?" she whispered. "Not now;--when you
feel like it. I do not ask it till you feel like it."
"Yes,"--Matilda whispered in answer.
Presently Mrs. Laval began to tell her about the ship fever, and the
nursing, and Miss Redwood; and how she and Miss Redwood had been alone
with everything to do. Then she wanted to hear how Matilda had spent
the weeks at the parsonage; and she was very much amused.
"I believe I'll get you to teach me some day," she said. "It's bad to
be so helpless. But I have learned something in these weeks. Now,
darling, is there anything you would like, that I can give you?
anything that would be a pleasure to you? Speak and tell me, before we
go down to lunch."
The colour started into Matilda's face.
"If I could," she said,--"I would like, if you liked it,--if Norton
could go with me again,--I would like _very_ much, to go and see Maria."
"Maria!" said Mrs. Laval. "At Poughkeepsie. Certainly. You shall
go--let me see, this is Monday,--Norton shall take you Thursday. You
must try and find something to take to Maria that she would like. What
would she like?"
Mrs. Laval was drawing out her purse. Matilda, in a flush of delight,
could not think what Maria would like; so Mrs. Laval gave her five
dollars and bade her come to her for more if she needed it.
Five dollars to buy Maria a present! Matilda went down to luncheon with
her head and her heart so full that she could hardly eat What should
the present be? and what a beginning of beautiful and delightful things
was this. She was as still as a mouse, and eat about as much. Mrs.
Laval and Norton were full of business.
"How soon do we go to town, mamma?"
"As soon as possible! You ought to be going to school. But--what day is
it to-day?"
"Monday, mamma."
"No, no; I mean what day of the month. It is the middle of November,
and past. I can't go till the beginning of next month."
"Soon enough," said Norton. "Mamma, is Pink to go to school?"
Mrs. Laval looked at Matilda, smiled, but made no answer.
"Mamma, let me teach her."
"You?" said Mrs. Laval. "We will see."
"There's another thing. Mamma, is she to have an allowance?"
"Certainly."
"How much, mamma?"
"As much as you have."
"Then she'll be rich," said Norton. "She hasn't got boots to buy. My
boots eat up my money."
"I am afraid Matilda's boots will be quite as troublesome to her. Don't
you think she will want boots?"
"Girls' boots don't cost so much, do they?"
"It depends on where you get them."
"Mamma, Pink will not get her boots where you get yours, unless you
give her the direction very carefully. She will think she must save the
money for Lilac lane. You must take care of her, mamma; or she will
think she ought to take a whole district on her hands, and a special
block of old women."
Mrs. Laval again looked fondly at Matilda, and put a delicate bit on
her plate, observing that she was not eating anything.
"You are to take her to Poughkeepsie Thursday, Norton, to see her
sister."
"That's jolly," said Norton. "I want to be in Poughkeepsie, to see
about some business of my own. We'll go to Blodgett's, Pink, and choose
the hyacinths and tulips for our beds."
"You had a great deal better go to Vick, at Rochester," said Mrs.
Laval. "You can depend upon what he gives you. I have not found
Blodgett so careful."
"I should like to go to Mr. Vick's very much; but Rochester is rather
too far off," said Norton.
"You can write, you foolish boy."
"Well," said Norton, "I believe that _will_ be best. We cannot put the
bulbs in now, unless we have a great stroke of good luck and there
comes a soft bit of weather. I'll write to Vick. But we'll go to
Blodgett's and get a few just for house blooming. Wouldn't you like
that, Pink?"
Matilda liked it so much that she found no words to express herself.
Norton and his mother both laughed at her.
After dinner Mrs. Laval went with Matilda up to her room, and looked
over her whole wardrobe. Most of the things which belonged to it Mrs.
Laval threw aside; Matilda's old calico dresses and several of the
others; and her old stockings and pocket handkerchiefs; and told
Matilda she might give them away. New linen, she said, Matilda should
have, as soon as she could get it made; meanwhile some new things were
provided already. She bade Matilda take a bath; and then she had her
own maid come in to arrange her hair and dress her. There was not much
to be done with Matilda's hair; it was in short wavy locks all over her
head; but the maid brushed it till Matilda thought she would never have
done; and then she was dressed in a new dark brown merino, made short,
and bound with a wide ribband sash; and new stockings were put on her
that were gartered above her knees; and Matilda felt at once very nice
and very funny. But when it was done, Mrs. Laval took her in her arms
and half smothered her with caresses.
"We will get everything put in order, as soon as we get to New York,"
she said; "my rosebud! my pink, as Norton calls you; my Daphne blossom!"
"What is that, ma'am?" said Matilda laughing.
"Daphne? you shall have a plant of it, and then you will know. It is
something very sweet, and yet very modest. It never calls people to
come and look at it."
She had Matilda on her lap; and she stroked her hair, putting it back
from her brow; took her face in both hands and looked at it and kissed
it; played with her hands; passed her fingers over the new stockings to
see how they fitted; tried the garters to see if they were too tight;
Matilda felt the touch of _motherly_ hands again, like no other hands.
It filled her with a warm gladness and sorrow, both together; but it
bound her to Mrs. Laval. She threw both arms at last around her neck,
and they sat so, wrapped up in each other.
"You must go and call upon your aunt, Matilda," Mrs. Laval said after a
long silence.
"Must I? I suppose I must," said Matilda.
"Certainly. And the sooner you do it, the more graceful it will be. I
have been to see her. So it is only necessary for you. It is a proper
mark of respect."
"I will go to-morrow; shall I?"
"Yes; go to-morrow. Now Norton spoke about an allowance. Would you like
it?"
"I don't know what it is, ma'am."
"I give Norton, that is, I _allow_ him, five dollars a month; fifteen
dollars a quarter. Out of that he must provide himself with boots and
shoes and gloves; the rest is for whatever he wants, fish-hooks or
hyacinths, as the case may be. I shall give you the same, Matilda; five
dollars every month. Then I shall expect you to be always nicely and
properly dressed, in the matter of boots and shoes and gloves, without
my attending to it. You are young to be charged with so much care of
your dress, but I can trust you. With what is left of your allowance
you will do whatever you like; nobody will ask any questions about it.
Do you like that, my dear?"
"Very much, ma'am."
"I thought so," said Mrs. Laval smiling. "Now I want you to go with me
and get something to put on your head. I have had a pelisse made for
you that will do till we go to the city and can find something better.
This can be then for second best. Put it on, dear, and be ready; the
carriage will be at the door in a moment now."
Wondering, Matilda put on the pelisse. She had never had anything so
nice in her life. It was of some thick, pretty, silver-grey cloth,
lined and wadded, and delicately trimmed with silk. Then she went off
with Mrs. Laval in the carriage, and was fitted with a warm little hat.
Coming home towards evening, at the close of this eventful day, Matilda
felt as if she hardly knew herself. To lay off her coat and hat in such
a warm, cheery little room, where the fire in the grate bade her such a
kind welcome; to come down to the drawing-room, where another fire
shone and glowed on thick rugs and warm-coloured carpets and soft
cushions and elegant furniture; and to know that she was at home amid
all these things and comforts; it was bewildering. She sat down on a
low cushion on the rug, and tried to collect her wits. What was it, she
had resolved to do?--to watch for duty, and to do everything to the
Lord Jesus? Then, so should her enjoyment of all this be. But Matilda
felt as if she were taken off her feet. So she went to praying, for she
could not think. She had only two minutes for that, before Norton
rushed in and came to her side with Vick's Catalogue; and the whole
rest of the evening was one delicious whirl through the wonders of a
flower garden, and the beauties of various coloured hyacinths and
tulips in particular.
The next day Matilda had two great matters on her heart; the present
for Maria, and the visit to her aunt. She resolved to do the
disagreeable business first. So she marched off to Mrs. Candy's in the
middle of the morning, when she knew they were at leisure; and was
ordered up into her aunt's room, where she and Clarissa were at work
after the old fashion. The room had a dismal, oppressive air to
Matilda's refreshed vision. Her aunt and cousin received each a kiss
from her, rather than gave it.
"Well, Matilda," said Mrs. Candy, "how do you do?"
This, Matilda knew, was an introduction to something following. The
answer was a matter of form.
"You've changed hands; how do you like it?" Mrs. Candy went on.
It would seem ungracious to say she liked it; so Matilda said nothing.
"I suppose things are somewhat different at Mrs. Laval's from what you
found them here?"
"Yes, ma'am; they are different."
"Have Mrs. Laval's servants got quite well?"
"Yes, ma'am, quite well."
"How many of them are there?"
"There are the mother and father, and two daughters, and the brother of
the father, I believe."
"And does Mrs. Laval keep other servants beside those?"
"O yes. Those are the farm servants, partly. But one of them cooks, and
one of the daughters is laundry maid; and the other is the dairy woman."
"And how many more?" asked Clarissa.
"There are the waiter and coachman, you know; and the chambermaid; and
Mrs. Laval's own maid, and the sempstress."
"A sempstress constantly on hand?" said Mrs. Candy.
"I believe so. I have always seen her there. She seems to belong there."
"Well, you find some difference between a house with a dozen servants,
and one where they keep only one, don't you?"
"It is different--" said Matilda, not knowing how to answer.
"What do _you_ do, in that house with a dozen servants?"
"I don't know, ma'am; I haven't done anything yet."
"How did you get among the sick people in the first place? how came
that? It was very careless!"
"Nobody knew what was the matter with them, aunt Candy. Mrs. Laval was
gone to town, and I went to take some beef tea that the doctor had
ordered."
"Doctor Bird?"
"Yes."
"Doctor Bird ought to have known better. He ought to have taken better
care," said Clarissa.
"It is easy to say that afterwards," remarked Mrs. Candy. "How came
Mrs. Laval not to be there herself?"
"She was there. She was only gone to New York to get help; for all the
servants had run away."
"Then _they_ knew what was the matter," said Clarissa.
"I don't know," said Matilda. "They seemed frightened or jealous. They
all went off."
"Like them," said Mrs. Candy. "Who did the nursing at last?"
"Mrs. Laval and Miss Redwood."
"Who is Miss Redwood?"
"She keeps house for Mr. Richmond."
A perceptible shadow darkened the faces of both mother and daughter.
Matilda wished herself away; but she could not end her visit while it
was yet so short; that would not do.
"And so you have been wasting six weeks at the parsonage,--doing
absolutely nothing!"
It had not been precisely that. But Matilda thought it was best to be
silent.
"It seems to me you are not improving in politeness," Mrs. Candy
remarked. "However, that is somebody else's affair now. Are you going
to school?"
"Not yet, ma'am."
"When are you going to begin?"
"I do not know. Not till we get to New York, I think."
"To New York! Then you are going to New York?"
"How soon?" Clarissa inquired.
"Not till next month."
"That is almost here," said Mrs. Candy. "Well, it would have been a
great deal better for you to have remained here with me; but I am clear
of the responsibility, that is one thing. If there is one thing more
thankless than another, it is to have anything to do with children that
are not your own. You know how to darn stockings, at any rate, Matilda;
I have taught you that."
"And to mend lace," Clarissa added.
"Matilda may find the good of that yet. She may have to earn her bread
with doing it. Nothing is more likely."
"I hope not," said Clarissa.
"It is an absurd arrangement anyhow," Mrs. Candy went on. "Matilda at
Mrs. Laval's, and Anne and Letitia earning _their_ bread with something
not a bit better than mending lace. They will not like it very well."
"Why not, aunt Candy?" Matilda asked.
"Wait and see if they do. Will they like it, do you think, to see that
you do not belong to them any more and are part and parcel of quite
another family? Will they like it, that your business will be to forget
them now? See if they like it!"
"Why I shall not forget them at all!" cried Matilda; "how could I? and
what makes you say so?"
"You are beginning by forgetting your mother," said Mrs. Candy, with a
significant glance at the silver-grey pelisse.
"Yes," said Clarissa, "I noticed the minute she came in. How could Mrs.
Laval do so!"
"What?" said Matilda. "That isn't true at all, aunt Candy."
"I see the signs," said Mrs. Candy. "There is no need to tell me what
they mean. In this country it is considered a mark of respect and a
sign that we do not forget our friends, to wear a dress of remembrance."
"It reminds us of them, too," said Clarissa. "And we like to be
reminded of those we love."
"I do not want anything to remind me of _her_," said Matilda; and the
little set of her head at the moment spoke volumes. "And besides, aunt
Candy and Clarissa, I did not wear mourning when I was here, except
only when I went to church."
"That shewed the respect," said Mrs. Candy. "You can see easily what
Mrs. Laval means, by her dressing you out in that style. Have you got a
black dress under your coat?"
"Let us see what you have got," said Clarissa.
As Matilda did not move, Mrs. Candy rose and went to her and lifted up
the folds of her pelisse so as to show the brown merino.
"I thought so," she remarked, as she went back to her seat.
"Mrs. Laval ought to be ashamed!" said her daughter.
Matilda had got by this time about as much as she could bear. She rose
up from her uneasy chair opposite Mrs. Candy.
"O, are you going?" said that lady. "You do not care to stay long with
us."
"Not to-day," said little Matilda, with more dignity than she knew, and
with an air of the head and shoulders that very much irritated Mrs.
Candy.
"I'd cure you of _that_," she said, "if I had you. I thought I had
cured you. You would not dare hold your head like that, if you were
living with me."
Now Matilda had not the least knowledge that her head was held
differently from usual. She said good bye.
"Are you not going to kiss me?" said her aunt. "You are forgetting
fast."
It cost an effort, but Matilda offered her cheek to Mrs. Candy and to
Clarissa, and left them. She ran down the stairs and out of the house.
At the little gate she stood still.
What did it all mean? Forgetting her mother? Had she done her memory an
injury, by putting on her brown frock and her grey pelisse? Was there
any truth in all this flood of disagreeable words, which seemed to have
flowed over and half drowned her. Ought her dress to be black? It had
not been when she lived with her aunt, except on particular days and
out of doors, as she had said. Was there any truth in all these
charges? Matilda's heart had suddenly lost all its gayety, and the
struggle in her thoughts was growing more and more unendurable every
moment. A confusion of doubts, questions, suspicions which she could
not at once see clearly enough to cast off, and sorrow, raged and
fought in her mind with indignant rejection and disbelief of them. What
should she do? How could she tell what was right? Mr. Richmond! She
would go straight to him.
And so she did, hurrying along Butternut street like a little vessel in
a gale; and she was just that, only the gale was in her own mind. It
drove her on, and she rushed into the parsonage, excited by her own
quick movements as well as by her thoughts. Miss Redwood was busy in
the kitchen.
"What's the matter?" she exclaimed, for Matilda had gone in that way.
"I want to see Mr. Richmond."
"Well, he's in there. La! child, we keep open doors at the parsonage;
there ain't no need that you should break 'em in by running against
'em. Take it easy, whatever there is to take. The minister's in his
study. But his dinner'll be ready in a quarter of an hour, tell him."
Matilda went more quietly and knocked at the study door. She heard
"Come in."
"Mr. Richmond, are you busy?" she asked, standing still inside of the
study door. "Shall I disturb you?" She was quiet enough now. But the
tears were shining in Matilda's eyes, and the eyes themselves were
eager.
"Come here," said Mr. Richmond holding out his hand; "I am not too
busy, and your disturbing me is very welcome. How do you do?"
Matilda's answer was to clasp Mr. Richmond's hand and cover her face.
"What is the matter?" he asked softly, though a little startled.
"Nothing that we cannot set right, Tilly?"
He drew his arm protectingly round her, and Matilda presently looked
up. "O Mr. Richmond," she said, "I don't know if anything is wrong; but
I want to know."
"Well, we can find out. What is the question?"
"Mr. Richmond, the question is, Ought I to wear black things for mamma?"
The minister was much surprised.
"What put this in your head, Tilly?"
"Mrs. Laval gave me some new dresses yesterday; these, you see, Mr.
Richmond; the frock is dark brown and the coat is grey. Ought they to
be black?"
"Why should they be black?"
"I don't know, sir. People do wear black things when they have lost
friends."
"What for do they so?"
"_I_ don't know, Mr. Richmond; but people say it shews respect--and
that I do not shew"--
"Let us look at it quietly," said her friend. "How does it shew respect
to a lost friend, to put on a peculiar dress?"
"I don't know, sir; because it's the custom, I suppose. But I am not in
black. Ought I to be?"
"Wait; we will come to it. Black dresses are supposed to be a sign of
grief, are they not?"
"I don't know, Mr. Richmond; they _said_, of respect, and to put one in
mind."
"The grief that wants putting in mind, is not a grief that pays much
real respect, I should think. Do not you think so? that's one thing."
Matilda looked at him, with eyes intent and pitifully full of tears,
just ready to run over, but eagerly watching his lips.
"Then as to respect, black dresses must shew respect, if any way, by
saying to the world that we remember and are sorry. Now the fact is,
Matilda, they do not say that at all. They are worn quite as much by
people who do not remember, and who are not sorry. They tell nothing
about the truth, except that some of those who wear them like to be in
the fashion and some are afraid of what the world will say.
"But there is another question. When our friends have left us and are
happy with the Lord Jesus, as all his children are, is it a mark of
respect to their memory, that we should cover our faces with crape, and
wear gloomy drapery, and shut up our shutters to keep the sunlight out
of our rooms? Have we any right to stop the sunlight anywhere? Wouldn't
it be better honour to our Christian friends who have gone, to be glad
for them, and speak as if we were; and let it be seen that all the
sorrow we have is on our own account, and we do not mean to indulge
that selfishly? We do not sorrow as those that have no hope; for we
believe that them which sleep in Jesus will God bring with him. There
will be a glorious meeting again, by and by, when Jesus comes; then we
and our dear ones who have loved him will be together again, and all of
us with the Lord."
"Then people ought _not_ to wear black for mourning?" said Matilda with
a brightened but undecided face.
"I think myself it is a very unchristian fashion. It is not according
to the spirit of the early Christian times; for people then who had had
friends slain by wild beasts, and burned to death, for the truth of
Jesus, gathered the poor remains that were left and laid them to rest,
with the motto cut in the door of their resting place,--'In peace. In
Christ.'"
"Did they!" said Matilda.
"A very great many of them."
"Then wouldn't you wear mourning, Mr. Richmond?"
"I should not. I never have."
"Nor crape on your hat?"
"Nor crape anywhere."
"Then I don't care!" said Matilda.
"I do not think you need care."
"But it is very disagreeable!" continued Matilda.
"What?"
"That people will say such things."
Mr. Richmond smiled. "You must try and learn to bear that, Tilly. But
it is not very difficult, when you are sure that you are in the right?"
"I think it is difficult to bear," said Matilda.
"The only question is, what is right? Do you remember the fairy tale,
about the journey that a great many ladies and gentlemen took to the
top of a hill, to get certain treasures that were there?"
"The golden bird and the singing water!" said Matilda. "Yes, I know. Do
_you_ know it, Mr. Richmond?"
"I heard you telling it to Norton."
"I didn't know that you heard!" said Matilda. "Well, Mr. Richmond?--how
could you remember!"
"Well--if they looked round, when they were going up the hill, they
lost all."
"They were turned into stone. And there were all sorts of noises in
their ears, to make them look round."
"The only way to get to the top, was to stop their ears."
"Yes, Mr. Richmond; I know; I understand. But what golden bird and
singing water are _we_ going up hill after?"
"Something better. We want the 'Well done, good and faithful
servant,'--do we not? And if we would have that, we must stop our ears
against all sorts of voices that would turn aside our eyes from what is
at the top of the hill."
"But Mr. Richmond, it is not _wicked_ to wear mourning, is it?"
"No. I was thinking then of other things. But it is very unlike the
spirit of religion, when a friend has gone home, to make a parade of
gloom about it; very unlike the truth of Christ."
"Mr. Richmond, I am very glad; and now I know what is right, I am very
much obliged to you. And Miss Redwood said your dinner would be ready
in a quarter of an hour. I guess it is ready now."
Which was the fact; and Matilda ran home, in a different sort of gale
now, and at luncheon was quite as light hearted as usual.