The acted proverbs that night went pretty well; so the boys said; and
Matilda went to bed feeling that life was very delightful where such
rare diversions were to be had, and such fine accomplishments acquired.
The next time, Judy said, they would dress for the acting; that needed
practising too.
The day following, when she got up, Matilda was astonished to find the
air thick with snow and her window sills quite filled up with it
already. She had meant to take a walk down town to make a purchase she
had determined on; and her first thought was, how bad the walking would
be now, after the dry clean streets they had rejoiced in for a week or
two past. The next thought was, that the street sweepers would be out.
For some time she had not seen them. They would be out in force to-day.
Matilda had pennies ready; she was quite determined on the propriety of
that; and she thought besides that a kind word or two might be given
where she had a chance. "I am sure Jesus would speak to them," she said
to herself. "He would try to do them good. I wonder, can I? But I can
_try_."
She had the opportunity even sooner than she expected; for while she
was eating her breakfast the snow stopped and the sun came out. So
about eleven o'clock she made ready and set forth. There was a very
convenient little pocket on the outside of her grey pelisse, in which
she could bestow her pennies. Matilda put eleven coppers there, all she
had, and one silver dime. What she was to do with that she did not
know; but she thought she would have it ready.
Clear, bright and beautiful, the day was; not cold; and the city all
for the moment whitened by the new fall of snow. So she thought at
first; but Matilda soon found there was no whitening New York. The
roadway was cut up and dirty, of course; and the multitudes of feet
abroad dragged the dirt upon the sidewalks. However, the sky was blue;
and defilement could not reach the sunlight; so she went along happy.
But before she got to Fourteenth Street, nine of her eleven pennies
were gone. Some timid words had gone with them too, sometimes; and
Matilda had seen the look of dull asking change to surprise and take on
a gleam of life in more than one instance; that was all that could be
said. Two boys had assured her they went to Sunday school; one or two
others of whom she had asked the question had not seemed to understand
her. Had it done any good? She could not tell; how could she tell?
Perhaps her look and her words and her penny, all together, might have
brought a bit of cheer into lives as much trampled into the dirt as the
very snow they swept. Perhaps; and _that_ was worth working for;
"anyhow, all I can do, is all I can do," thought Matilda. She mused too
on the swift way money has of disappearing in New York. Norton's
watchguard had cost twenty eight cents; the obelisk, two dollars; now
the dress she was on her way to buy for Letitia would take two dollars
and a half more; there was already almost five gone of her twenty. And
of even her pennies she had only two left, with the silver bit.
"However, they won't expect me to give them anything _again_ as I go
back," she thought, referring to the street sweepers. "Once in one
morning will do, I suppose."
Just as she said this to herself, she had come to another crossing, a
very busy one, where carts and carriages were incessantly turning down
or coming up; keeping the sweeper in work. It was a girl this time; as
old or older than herself; a little tidy, with a grim old shawl tied
round her waist and shoulders, but bare feet in the snow. Matilda might
have crossed in the crowd without meeting her, but she waited to speak
and give her penny. The girl's face encouraged her.
"Are you not very cold?" Matilda asked.
"No--I don't think of it." The answer seemed to come doubtfully.
"Do you go to Sunday school anywhere?"
The girl sprang from her at this minute to clear the way for some
dainty steppers, where the muddy snow had been flung by the horses'
feet just a moment before; and to hold her hand for the penny, which
was not given. Slowly she came back to Matilda.
"Do most of the people give you something?"
"No," said the girl. "Most of 'em don't."
"Do you go to Sunday school on Sundays?"
"O yes: I go to Mr. Rush's Sunday school, in Forty Second street."
"Why, _I_ go there," said Matilda. "Who's your teacher?"
The girl's face quite changed as she now looked at her; it grew into a
sort of answering sympathy of humanity; there was almost a dawning
smile.
"I remember you," she said; "I didn't at first, but I do now. You were
in the class last Sunday. I am in Mr. Wharncliffe's class."
"Why so do I remember you!" cried Matilda. "You are Sarah?"
The conversation was interrupted again, for the little street-sweeper
was neglecting her duties, and she ran to attend to them. Out and in
among the carriages and horses' feet. Matilda wondered why she did not
get thrown down and trampled upon; but she was skilful and seemed to
have eyes in the back of her head, for she constantly kept just out of
danger. Matilda waited to say a little more to her, for the talk had
become interesting; in vain, the little street-sweeper was too busy,
and the morning was going; Matilda had to attend to her own business
and be home by one o'clock. She had found, she thought, the place where
her silver dime belonged; so she dropped it into Sarah's hand as she
passed, with a smile, and went on her way. This time she got an
unmistakable smile in return, and it made her glad.
So she was in a class with a street-sweeper! Matilda reflected as she
went on down Broadway. Well, what of it? They would think it very odd
at home! And somehow it seemed odd to Matilda herself. Had she got a
little out of her place in going to Mr. Rush's Sunday school? Could it
be best that such elegant robes, made by Mme. Fournissons, should sit
in the same seat with a little street girl's brown rags? "She was not
ragged on Sunday, though," thought Matilda; "poor enough; and some of
those boys were street boys, I dare say. However, Mr. Wharncliffe is a
gentleman; there is no doubt of that; and he likes his class; some of
them are good, I think. And if they are, Jesus loves them. He loves
them whether or no. How odd it is that we don't!"--
Matilda went on trying to remember all that Sarah had said in the
school; but the different speakers and words were all jumbled up in her
mind, and she could not quite separate them. She forgot Sarah then in
the delightful business of choosing a dress for Letitia; a business so
difficult withal that it was like to last a long time, if Matilda had
not remembered one o'clock. She feared she would be late; yet a single
minute more of talk with the street girl she must have; she walked up
to Fourteenth street. Sarah was there yet, busy at her post. She had a
smile again for Matilda.
"Are you not tired?" the rich child asked of the poor one.
"I don't think of being tired," was the answer.
"What time do you go home to dinner?"
"Dinner?" said Sarah; and she shook her head. "I don't go home till
night. I can't."
"But how do you take your dinner?" Matilda asked.
The girl flushed a little, and hesitated. "I can take it here," she
said.
"Standing? and in this crowd?"
"No.--I go and sit down somewheres. 'Tain't such a dinner as you have.
It's easy took."
"Sarah," said Matilda suddenly, "you love Jesus, don't you?"
"Who?" she said, for the noise and rush of horses and carriages in the
streets was tremendous, and the children both sprang back to the
sidewalk just then out of the way of something. "Jesus? Was it _that_
you asked?"
She stood leaning on her broom and looking at her questioner. Matilda
could see better now how thin the face was, how marked with care; but
at the same time a light came into it like a sunbeam on a winter
landscape; the grey changed to golden somehow; and the set of the
girl's lips, gentle and glad, was very sweet.
"Do I love him?" she repeated. "He is with me here all the day when I
am sweeping the snow. Yes, I love him! and he loves me. That is how I
live."
"That's how I want to live too," said Matilda; "but sometimes I forget."
"I shouldn't think _you'd_ forget," said Sarah. "It must be easy for
you."
"What must be easy?"
"I should think it would be easy to be good," said the poor girl, her
eye going unconsciously up and down over the tokens of Matilda's
comfortable condition.
"I don't think having things helps one to be good," said Matilda. "It
makes it hard, sometimes."
"I sometimes think _not_ having things makes it hard," said the other,
a little wistfully. "But Jesus is good, anyhow!" she added with a
content of face which was unshadowed.
"Good bye," said Matilda. "I shall see you again." And she ran off to
get into a horse car. The little street-sweeper stood and looked after
her. There was not a thing that the one had but the other had it not.
She looked, and turned to her sweeping again.
Matilda on her part hurried along, with a heart quite full, but
remembering at the same time that she would be late at lunch. At the
corner where she stopped to wait for a car there was a fruit stall,
stocked with oranges, apples, candies and gingerbread. It brought back
a thought which had filled her head a few minutes ago; but she was
afraid she would be late. She glanced down the line of rails to the car
seen coming in the distance, balanced probabilities a moment, then
turned to the fruit woman. She bought a cake of gingerbread and an
orange and an apple; had to wait what seemed a long time to receive her
change; then rushed across the block to where she had left Sarah,
stopped only to put the things in her hands, and rushed back again; not
in time to catch her car, which was going on merrily out of her hail.
But the next one was not far behind; and Matilda enjoyed Sarah's lunch
all the way to her own.
"But this is only for one day. And there are so many days, and so many
people that want things. I must save every bit of money I can."
She was late; but she was so happy and hungry, that her elders looked
on her very indulgently, it being, as in truth she was, a pleasant
sight.
That evening Judith proposed another practising of the proverb she and
Matilda were to act together; and this time she dressed up for it. A
robe of her mother's, which trailed ridiculously over the floor; jewels
of value in her ears and on her hands and neck; and finally a lace
scarf of Mrs. Lloyd's, which was very rich and extremely costly. Norton
was absent on some business of his own; David was the only critic on
hand. He objected.
"You can act just as well without all that trumpery, Judith."
"Trumpery! That's what it is to you. My shawl is worth five hundred
dollars if it is worth a dollar. It is worth a great deal more than
that, I believe; but I declare I get confused among the prices of
things. That is one of the cares of riches, that try me most."
"You can act just as well without all that, Judy."
"I can't!"
"You can just as well, if you would only think so."
"Very likely; but I don't think so; that just makes it, you see. I want
to feel that I am rich; how am I going to get the idea in my head,
boy?--I declare, Satinalia, I think this satin dress is getting frayed
already."
"How ought I to be dressed?" inquired Matilda.
"O just as you are. You haven't to make believe, you know; you have got
only to act yourself. Come, begin.--I declare, Satinalia, I think this
satin dress is getting frayed already."
Matilda hesitated, then put by the displeasure which rose at Judy's
rudeness, and entered into the play.
"And how shouldn't it, ma'am, when it's dragging and streaming all over
the floor for yards behind you. Satin won't bear every thing."
"No, the satin one gets now-a-days won't. I could buy satin once, that
would wear out two of this; and this cost five dollars a yard. Dear me!
I shall be a poor woman yet."
"If you were to cut off the train, ma'am, the dress wouldn't drag so."
"Wouldn't it! you Irish stupid. O I hear something breaking downstairs!
Robert has smashed a tray-ful, I'll be bound. I heard the breaking of
glass. Run, Satinalia, run down as hard as you can and find out what it
is. Run before he gets the pieces picked up; for then I shall never
know what has happened."
"You'd miss the broken things," said Matilda; not exactly as Satinalia.
"You're an impudent hussy, to answer me so. Run and see what it is, I
tell you, or I shall never know."
"What must I say it is?" said Matilda, out of character.
"Haven't you wit enough for that?" said Judith, also speaking in her
own proper. "Say any thing you have a mind; but don't stand poking
there. La! you haven't seen any thing in all your life, except a
liqueur stand. Say any thing! and be quick."
Matilda ran down a few stairs, and paused, not quite certain whether
she would go back. She was angry. But she wanted to be friends with
Judy and her brother; and the thought of her motto came to her help.
"Do all in the name of the Lord Jesus;"--then certainly with courtesy
and patience and kindness, as his servant should. She prayed for a kind
spirit, and went back again.
"You've been five ages," cried the rich woman. "Well, what's broke?"
"Ma'am, Robert has let fall a tray full of claret glasses, and the
salad dish with a pointed edge."
"_That_ salad dish!" exclaimed Judy. "It was the richest in New York.
The Queen of England had one like it; and nobody else but me in this
country. I told Robert to keep it carefully done up in cotton; and
_never_ to wash it. That is what it is to have things."
"Don't it have to be washed?" inquired Matilda.
"I wish I could get into your head," said Judy impatiently and speaking
quite as Judy, "that you are a maid servant and have no business to ask
questions. I suppose you never knew anything about maid-servants till
you came here; but you have been here long enough to learn _that_, if
you were not perfectly _bourgeoise!_"
"Hush, Judy; you forget yourself," said David.
"She don't understand!" said the polite young lady.
"You do not get on with your proverb at this rate," he went on,
glancing at Matilda, whose cheek gave token of some understanding.
"Stupid!" said Judy, returning to her charge and play,--"don't you
understand that when that dish is used I wash it myself? And what
claret glasses were they? I'll be bound they are the yellow set with my
crest?"
"Those are the ones," Satinalia assented.
"That is what it is to have things! My life is one trouble.
Satinalia!"--
"Ma'am."
"I haven't got my diamond bracelet on."
"No, ma'am; I do not see it."
"Well, go and see it. Find it and bring it to me. I want it on with
this dress."
Matilda being instructed in this part of her duties, reported that she
could not find the bracelet. The jewel box was ordered in, and
examined, with a great many lamentations and conjectures as to the
missing article. Finally the supposed owner declared she must write
immediately to her jewellers to know if they had the bracelet, either
for repair or safe keeping. Satinalia was despatched for a writing
desk; and then for a candle.
"There are no tapers in this concern," Judy remarked; "and the note
must be sealed. Somebody might find out that the bracelet is missing,
and so it would be missing for ever, from me. Satinalia, what do you
stand there for? Do you not hear me say I want a candle?"
"Can't you make believe as well?" asked Matilda, not Satinalia.
"You are too tiresome!" exclaimed Judy. "What do you know about it, at
all, I should like to know. I think, when I give you the favour of
playing with me, that is enough. You do as I tell you."
Matilda went for the candle, inwardly resolving that she would not
enjoy the privilege of practising with Judy another time unless Norton
were by. In his presence she was protected. A tear or two came from the
little girl's eyes, before she got back to the lobby with the lighted
candle. Judy perhaps wanted to make a tableau of herself at the letter
sealing; for she took an elegant attitude, that threw her satin drapery
imposingly about her and displayed her bare arm somewhat theatrically,
gleaming with jewels and softened by the delicate lace of the scarf.
But thereby came trouble. In a careless sweep of her arm, sealing-wax
in hand, no doubt intended to be very graceful, the lace came in
contact with the flame of the candle; and a hole was burnt in the
precious fabric before anybody could do any thing to prevent it. Then
there was dismay. Judy shrieked and flung herself down with her head on
her arms. David and Matilda looked at the lace damage, and looked at
each other. Even he looked grave.
"It's a pretty bad business," he concluded.
"O what shall I do! O what shall I do!" Judith cried. "O what _will_
grandmamma say! O I wish Christmas never came!"--
"What sort of lace is this?" Matilda asked, still examining the scarf
which David had let fall from his fingers. He thought it an odd
question and did not answer. Judy was crying and did not hear.
"The best thing is to own up now, Judy," said her brother. "It is no
use to cry."
"Yes, it is!" said Judy vehemently. "That's all a boy knows about it;
but they don't know everything."
"I don't _see_ the use of it, at all events," said David. "If tears
were spiders, they might mend it."
"Spiders mend it!" repeated Judy. "David, you are enough to provoke a
saint."
"But you are not a saint," said her brother. "It need not provoke you.
What are you going to do?"
"Judy," said Matilda suddenly, "look here. Does your grandmother often
wear this?"
"She'll be sure to want it now," said Judy, "if she never did before."
"It doesn't help the matter either," said David. "Putting off discovery
is no comfort. I always think it is best to be out with a thing and
have done with it."
"No," said Matilda. "Yes;--that isn't what I mean; but I mean, will
Mrs. Lloyd want to wear this now for a few days--four or five?"
"She won't wear it before our party," said Judy. "There's nothing going
on or coming off before that. O I wish our party was in Egypt."
"Then don't," said Matilda. "Look here,--listen. I think perhaps,--I
don't promise, you know, for I am not sure, but I think _perhaps_ I can
mend this."
"You can't, my girl," said David, "unless you are a witch."
"You might as well mend the house!" said Judy impatiently. "It isn't
like darning stockings, I can tell you."
"I know how to darn stockings," said Matilda; "and I do not mean to
mend this that way. But I can mend some lace; and I think--perhaps--I
can this. If you will let me, I'll try."
"How come you to think you can?" David asked. "I should say it was
impossible, to anything but a fairy."
"I have been taught," said Matilda. "I did not like to learn, but I am
very glad now I did. Do you like to have me try?"
"It is very kind of you," said David; "but I can't think you can manage
it."
"Of course she can't!" said Judy contemptuously.
"If I only had the right thread," said Matilda, re-examining the
material she had to deal with.
"What must it be?" David inquired.
"Look," said Matilda. "Very, very, _very_ fine, to match this."
"Where can it be had? You are sure you will not make matters worse by
doing any thing with it? Though I don't see how they could be worse,
that's a fact. I'll get the thread."
So it was arranged between them, without reference to Judy. Matilda
carried the scarf to her room; and Judy ungraciously and ungracefully
let her go without a word.
"You are not very civil, Judy," said her brother.
"Civil, to that creature!"
"Civil to anybody," said David; "and she is a very well-behaved
creature, as you call her."
"She was well-behaved at Candello's the other day, wasn't she?"
"Perhaps she was, after her fashion. Come, Judy, you have tried her
to-night, and she has borne it as you wouldn't have borne it; or I
either."
"She knew better than not to bear it," said Judy insolently.
"I wish you had known better than to give it her to bear. She was not
obliged to bear it, either. Aunt Zara would not take it very well, if
she was to hear it."
Judy only pouted, and then went on with a little more crying for the
matter of the shawl. David gave up his part of the business.
Except looking for the thread. That he did faithfully; but he did not
know where to go to find the article and of course did not find it.
What he brought to Matilda might as well have been a cable, for all the
use she could make of it in the premises. There was no more to do but
to tell Mrs. Laval and get her help; and this was the course finally
agreed upon between Matilda and David; Judy was not consulted.
Mrs. Laval heard the story very calmly; and immediately promised to get
the thread, which she did. Matilda could not also obtain from her an
absolute promise of secrecy. Mrs. Laval reserved that; only assuring
Matilda that she would do no harm, and that she would say nothing at
least until it should be seen whether or no Matilda had succeeded in
the repair of the scarf.
And now for days thereafter Matilda was most of the time shut up in her
room, with the door locked. It was necessary to keep out Judy; the work
called for Matilda's whole and best attention. It was not an easy or a
small undertaking. If anybody could have looked in through the closed
door those days, he would have seen a little figure seated on a low
foot-cushion, with a magnificent lace drapery lying over her lap and
falling to the floor. On a chair at her side were her thread and
needles and scissors; and very delicately and slowly Matilda's fingers
were busy trying to weave again the lost meshes of the exquisite lace.
They worked and worked, hour after hour, before she could be certain
whether she was going to succeed; and the blood flushed into Matilda's
cheeks with the excitement and the intense application. At last,
Saturday afternoon, enough progress was made to let the little girl see
that, as she said to herself, "it would do;" and she put the scarf away
that afternoon feeling that she was all ready for Sunday to come now,
and could enjoy it without a drawback of any sort.
And so she did--even Dr. Broadman and his parti-coloured church.
Matilda's whole heart had turned back to its old course; that course
which looks to Jesus all the way. Sunlight lies all along that way, as
surely as one's face is turned to the sun; so Matilda felt very happy.
She hoped, too, that she was gaining in the goodwill of her adopted
cousins; David certainly had spoken and looked civilly and pleasantly
again; and Matilda's heart to-day was without a cloud.
Norton declined to go with her to Sunday school, however, and she went
alone. No stranger now, she took her place in the class as one at home;
and all the business and talk of the hour was delightful to her. Sarah
was there of course; after the school services were ended Matilda
seized her opportunity.
"Whereabouts do you live, Sarah?"
Matilda had been turning over various vague thoughts in her mind,
compounded from experiences of Lilac lane and the snowy corner of
Fourteenth street; her question was not without a purpose. But Sarah
answered generally, that it was not very far off.
"Where is it?" said Matilda. "I should like, if I can, and maybe I can,
I should like to come and see you."
"It is a poor place," said Sarah. "I don't think you would like to come
into it."
"But you live there," said the other child.
"Yes"--said Sarah uneasily; "I live there when I ain't somewheres else;
and I'm that mostly."
"Where is that 'somewhere else'? I'll come to see you there, if I can."
"You _have_ seen me there," said the street-sweeper. "'Most days I'm
there."
"I have been past that corner a good many times, Sarah, when I couldn't
see you anywhere."
"'Cos the streets was clean. There warn't no use for my broom then.
Nobody'd ha' wanted it, or me. I'd ha' been took up, maybe."
"What do you do _then_, Sarah?"
"Some days I does nothing; some days I gets something to sell, and then
I does that."
"But I would like to know where you live."
"You wouldn't like it, I guess, if you saw it. Best not," said Sarah.
"They wouldn't let you come to such a place, and they hadn't ought to.
I'd like to see you at my crossing," she added with a smile as she
moved off. Matilda, quite lost in wonderment, stood looking after her
as she went slowly down the aisle. Her clothes were scarcely whole, yet
put on with an evident attempt at tidiness; her bonnet was not a
bonnet, but the unshapely and discoloured remains of what had once had
the distinction. Her dress was scarcely clean; yet as evidently there
was an effort to be as neat as circumstances permitted. What sort of a
home could it be, where so nice a girl as Matilda believed this one
was, could reach no more actual and outward nicety in her appearance?
"You have made Sarah Staples' acquaintance, I see;" Mr. Wharncliffe's
voice broke her meditations.
"I saw her at her crossing one day. Isn't she a good girl?"
"She _is_ a good girl, I think. What do you think?"
"O I think so," said Matilda; "I thought so before; but--Mr.
Wharncliffe--I am afraid she is very poor."
"I am not afraid so; I know it."
"She will not tell me where she lives," said Matilda rather wistfully.
"Do you want to know?"
"Yes, I wanted to know; but I think she did not want I should."
"Did you think of going to see her, that you tried to find out?"
"I would have liked to go, if I could," said Matilda, looking
perplexed. "But she seemed to think I wouldn't like it, or that I ought
not, or something."
"She is right," said Mr. Wharncliffe. "You would not take any pleasure
in seeing Sarah's home; and you cannot go there alone. But with me you
may go. I will take you there, if you choose."
"Now?"
"Yes."
"Thank you, sir. I would like it."
Truth to tell, Matilda would have liked a walk in any direction and for
any purpose, in company with that quiet, pleasant, kind, strong face.
She had taken a great fancy and given a great trust already to her new
teacher. That walk did not lessen either. Hand in hand they went along,
through poor streets and in a neighbourhood that grew more wretched as
they went further; yet though Matilda was in a measure conscious of
this, she seemed all the while to be walking in a sort of spotless
companionship; which perhaps she was. The purity made more impression
upon her than the impurity. And, withal that the part of the city they
were coming to was very miserable, and more wicked than miserable,
Matilda saw it through an atmosphere of very pure and sweet talk.
She drew a little closer to her guide, however, as one after another
sight and sound of misery struck her senses. A knot of drunken men
wrestling; single specimens, very ugly to see; voices loud and brutal
coming out of drinking shops; haggard-looking, dirty women, in dismal
rags or finery worse yet; crying children; scolding mothers; a
population of boys and girls of all ages, who evidently knew no
Sabbath, and to judge by appearances had no home; and streets and
houses and doorways so squalid, so encumbered with garbage and filth,
so morally distant from peace and purity, that Matilda felt as if she
were walking with an angel through regions where angels never stay.
Perhaps Mr. Wharncliffe noticed the tightening clasp of her fingers
upon his. He paused at length; it was before a large, lofty brick
building at the corner of a block. No better in its moral indications
than other houses around; this was merely one of mammoth proportions.
At the corner a flight of stone steps went down to a cellar floor.
Standing just at the top of these steps, Matilda could look down and
partly look in; though there seemed little light below but what came
from this same entrance way. The stone steps were swept. But at the
bottom there was nothing but a mud floor; doubtless dry in some
weathers, but at this time of encumbering snow it was stamped into mud.
Also down there, in the doubtful light, Matilda discerned an overturned
broken chair and a brown jug; and even caught a glimpse of the corner
of a small cooking stove. People lived there! or at least cooked and
eat, or perhaps sold liquor. Matilda looked up, partly in wonder,
partly in dismay, to Mr. Wharncliffe's face.
"This is the place," he said; and his face was grave enough then.
"Would you like to go in?"
"This?" said Matilda bewildered. "_This_ isn't the place? She don't
live _here?_ Does anybody live here?"
"Come down and let us see. You need not be afraid," he said. "There is
no danger."
Very unwillingly Matilda let the hand that held her draw her on to
descend the steps. If this was Sarah's home, she did not wonder at the
girl's hesitation about making it known. Sarah was quite right; it was
no place fit for Matilda to come to. How could she help letting Sarah
see by her face how dreadful she thought it?
Meanwhile she was going down the stone steps. They landed her in a
cellar room; it was nothing but a cellar; and without the clean dry
paving of brick or stone which we have in the cellars of our houses.
The little old cooking stove was nearly all the furniture; two or three
chairs or stools were around, but not one of them whole; and in two
corners were heaps, of what? Matilda could not make out anything but
rags, except a token of straw in one place. There was a forlorn table
besides with a few specimens of broken crockery upon it. A woman was
there; very poor though not _bad_-looking; two bits of ragged boys; and
lastly Sarah herself, decent and grave, as she had just come from
Sunday school, sitting on a box with her lesson book in her hand. She
got up quickly and came forward with a surprised face, in which there
shone also that wintry gleam of pleasure that Matilda had seen in it
before. The pleasure was for the sight of Mr. Wharncliffe; perhaps
Sarah was shy of her other visiter. However, Mr. Wharncliffe took the
conversation upon himself, and left it to nobody to feel or shew
awkwardness; which both Matilda and Sarah were ready to do. He had
none; Matilda thought he never could have any, anywhere; so gracious,
so free, his words and manner were in this wretched place; so pleasant
and kind, without a trace of consciousness that he had ever been in a
better room than this. And yet his boot heels made prints in the damp
earth floor. The poor slatternly woman roused up a little to meet his
words of cheer and look of sympathy; and Sarah came and stood by his
shoulder. It was an angel's visit. Matilda saw it, as well as she knew
that she had been walking with one; he brought some warmth and light
even into that drear region; some brightness even into those faces;
though he staid but a few minutes. Giving then a hearty hand grasp, not
to his scholar only but to the poor woman her mother, whom Matilda
thought it must be very disagreeable to touch, he with his new scholar
came away.
Matilda's desire to talk or wish to hear talking had suddenly ended.
She threaded the streets in a maze; and Mr. Wharncliffe was silent;
till block after block was passed and gradually a region of comparative
order and beauty was opening to them. At last he looked down at his
little silent companion.
"This is a pleasanter part of the city, isn't it?"
"O Mr. Wharncliffe!" Matilda burst forth, "why do they live there?"
"Because they cannot live anywhere else."
"They are so poor as that?"
"So poor as that. And a great many other people are so poor as that."
"How much would it cost?"
"For them to move? Well, it would cost the rent of a better room; and
they haven't got it. The mother cannot earn much; and Sarah is the
chief stay of the family."
"Have they nothing to live upon, but the pennies she gets for sweeping
the crossing?"
"Not much else. The mother makes slops, I believe; but that brings in
only a few more coppers a week."
"How much _would_ a better room cost, Mr. Wharncliffe?"
"A dollar a week, maybe; more or less, as the case might be."
There was silence again; until Mr. Wharncliffe and Matilda had come to
Blessington avenue and were walking down its clean and spacious sideway.
"Mr. Wharncliffe," said Matilda suddenly, "why are some people so rich
and other people so poor?"
"There are a great many reasons."
"What are some of them? can't I understand?"
"You can understand this; that people who are industrious, and careful,
and who have a talent for business, get on in the world better than
those who are idle or wasteful or self-indulgent or wanting in
cleverness."
"Yes; I can understand that."
"The first class of people make money, and their children, who maybe
are neither careful nor clever, inherit it; along with their business
friends, and their advantages and opportunities; while the children of
the idle and vicious inherit not merely the poverty but to some extent
the other disadvantages of their parents. So one set are naturally
growing richer and richer and the other naturally go on from poor to
poorer."
"Yes, I understand _that_," said Matilda, with a perplexed look. "But
some of these poor people are not bad nor idle?"
"Perhaps their parents have been. Or without business ability; and the
one thing often leads to another."
"But"--said Matilda, and stopped.
"What is it?"
"It puzzles me, sir. I was going to say, God could make it all better;
and why don't he?"
"He will do everything for us, Matilda," said her friend gravely,
"except those things he has given _us_ to do. He will help us to do
those; but he will not prevent the consequences of our idleness or
disobedience. Those we must suffer; and others suffer with us, and
because of us."
"But then"--said Matilda looking up,--"the rich ought to take care of
the poor."
"That is what the Lord meant we should do. We ought to find them work,
and see that they get proper pay for it; and not let them die of hunger
or disease in the mean while."
"Well, why don't people do so?" said Matilda.
"Some try. But in general, people have not come yet to love their
neighbours as themselves."
"Thank you, Mr. Wharncliffe," Matilda said, as he stopped at the foot
of Mrs. Lloyd's steps.
He smiled, and inquired, "For what?"
"For taking me there."
"Why?" said he, growing grave.
But a little to his surprise the little girl hurried up the steps
without making him any answer.
In the house, she hurried in like manner up the first flight of stairs
and up the second flight. Then, reaching her own floor, where nobody
was apt to be at that time of Sunday afternoons, the child stopped and
stood still.
She did not even wait to open her own door; but clasping the rail of
the balusters she bent down her little head there and burst into a
passion of weeping. Was there such utter misery in the world, and near
her, and she could not relieve it? Was it possible that another child,
like herself, could be so unlike herself in all the comforts and helps
and hopes of life, and no remedy? Matilda could not accept the truth
which her eyes had seen. She recalled Sarah's gentle, grave face, and
sober looks, as she had seen her on her crossing, along with the gleam
of a smile that had come over them two or three times; and her heart
almost broke. She stood still, sobbing, thinking herself quite safe and
alone; so that she started fearfully when she suddenly heard a voice
close by her. It was David Bartholomew, come out of his room.
"What in the world's to pay?" said he. "What _is_ the matter? You
needn't start as if I were a grisly bear! But what _is_ the matter,
Tilly?"
Matilda was less afraid of him lately; and she would have answered, but
there was too much to say. The burden of her heart could not be put
into words at first. She only cried aloud,--
"Oh David!--Oh David!"
"What then?" said David. "What has Judy been doing?"
"Judy! O nothing. I don't mind Judy."
"Very wise of you, I'm sure, and I am very glad to hear it. What _has_
troubled you? something bad, I should judge."
"Something so bad, you could never think it was true," said Matilda,
making vain efforts to dry off the tears which kept welling freshly
forth.
"Have you lost something?"
"I? O no; I haven't got any thing to lose. Nothing particular, I mean.
But I have seen such a place"--
"A _place?_" said David, very much puzzled. "What about the place?"
"Oh, David, such a place! And people live there!"--Matilda could not
get on.
David was curious. He stood and waited, while Matilda sobbed and tried
to stop and talk to him. For, seeing that he wanted to hear, it was a
sort of satisfaction to tell to some one what filled her heart. And at
last, being patient, he managed to get a tolerably clear report of the
case. He did not run off at once then. He stood still looking at
Matilda.
"It's disgraceful," he said. "It didn't use to be so among my people."
"And, oh David, what can we do? What can I do? I don't feel as if I
could _bear_ to think that Sarah must sleep in that place to-night. Why
the floor was just earth, damp and wet. And not a bedstead--just think!
What can I do, David?"
"I don't see that you can do much. You cannot build houses to lodge all
the poor of the city. That would take a good deal of money; more than
you have got, little one."
"But--I can't reach them all, but I can do something for this one,"
said Matilda. "I _must_ do something."
"Even that would take a good deal of money," said David.
"I must do something," Matilda repeated. And she went to her own room
to ponder how, while she was getting ready for dinner. Could she save
anything from her Christmas money?