Trading

"Well. – But I'll pay charges, Tilly; I don't believe you've got much in that little pocket of yours."

This consultation was private; and in private the new clothes for Joshua Binn were procured and got ready; very plain and coarse clothes, for David and Matilda were learning how much there was to do with their money. All this caused no remark, not being open to it. But when David took little Josh, wrapped up in an old cloak of his, and drove with him in a carriage to the station, and took the cars with him to Shadywalk, there was a general outcry and burst of astonishment and indignation. David was at breakfast the next morning as usual; and the storm fell upon him.

"I wonder how you feel this morning," said his grandmother, half in displeasure and half in sympathy; for David was a favourite.

"After travelling all night," added Mrs. Laval.

"Up to study, Davy?" asked Norton.

"I am so astonished at you, David, that I do not know how to speak," began his mother. "You– always until now a refined, gentlemanly boy, —you to turn yourself into a head hospital nurse, and Poor Society agent! travelling in company with the lowest riff-raff! I don't know what to make of you. Really, I am in despair."

"He always was a poke," said Judy; "and now he's a poor poke."

"It is too bad!" echoed Mrs. Laval; "though that isn't true, Judy."

"He's a spoiled boy," said Judy. "I wash my hands of him. I hope he'll wash his hands."

"The idea!" said Mrs. Bartholomew. "As if there was nobody else in the world to look after sick children, but Davy must leave his own business and go nursing them in the cars! I wouldn't have had anybody see him for a thousand dollars."

"What harm, mamma?" asked David coolly.

"Harm?" repeated Mrs. Bartholomew. "Is it your business to take all sick New York and all poor New York on your hands, and send them to watering places?"

"One poor little child?" said David.

"No matter; what's the use of sending one, if you don't send the other hundred thousand? Is it your business, David Bartholomew?"

"Hardly, mamma. But I thought the one was my business."

"There you were mistaken. There are two or three poor societies; it is for them to look after these cases. What is the use of having poor societies, if we are to do the work ourselves? So low! so undignified! so degrading! just ask any minister, – ask Dr. Blandford, – what he thinks."

"David don't care, mamma," said Judy. "David never cares what anybody thinks."

"Very wrong, then," said Mrs. Bartholomew; "every right-feeling person cares what other people think. How is the world to get along? David, I don't know you any more, you are so changed."

"Yes, mamma," said David; "perhaps I am."

"Perhaps you are? Why my patience!" —

"Your patience seems to have given out, daughter," said Mrs. Lloyd. "Come, let Davy eat his breakfast."

"He's eating it," said Judy. "Nothing will hurt David's appetite."

"I should think nursing poor folks out of tenement houses might," observed Mrs. Bartholomew. "It would once."

"I can't imagine, mamma," said Judy, "how we are going to live together in future. David isn't our sort any more. Life looks dark to me."

"If it was anybody but David," said Mrs. Bartholomew, "I should say he would grow out of it. Any other young fool would."

"Grow out of what, mamma?" David asked.

"Grow out of the notion of being an agent of the poor societies. It's too disgusting!"

"Mamma," he said, and he said it with such an unruffled face that Matilda was comforted, "the poor society would not have done what I did last night. And I am not doing it for the poor societies, but for the King Messiah. I am His agent; that's all."

"Where did you get your commission?" Norton asked.

David hesitated, and then said, "Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you – "

"But that's absolute nonsense!" exclaimed Mrs. Bartholomew.

"What, mamma?" said David, lifting his eyes to her face.

"I mean, of course, the words are not nonsense, but putting such a meaning to them."

"What meaning do you think belongs to them, then, mamma?"

"Why," said Mrs. Bartholomew in high dudgeon, "if you are to take them so, then we ought to send our carriage to take poor people to drive, and we ought to give our grapes and our wine to sick people, instead of eating them ourselves; and I ought to sell my diamonds and change them into bread and coffee and feather beds, I suppose; and our silks and laces ought to go for rents and firing for those who are in want."

"Well, mother?" said David.

"Well; is that what you mean?"

"That's what the words mean, if they mean anything, mamma. I think the King wants all we have got, to be used in his work; and all mine he shall have."

There was no braggadocio, but a sweet steadfastness in the words and manner which impressed all his hearers; though it impressed them differently.

"Mother, what do you think of him?" Mrs. Bartholomew said, apparently in despair.

"I don't know what to think, child," said the old lady. "I am puzzled."

"About me, grandmamma?" asked David.

"No, boy; I never was puzzled about you, and I am not now."

"We'll have grandma going over next!" exclaimed Judy, "and then – What'll be then, mamma? Will this be a hospital, grandmamma? I shouldn't like to live here in that case, because of the fevers. I declare, I'm very sorry! Will David be the doctor or the minister, grandmamma?"

"Hush, Judy!" said her mother. "Things are bad enough without you."

"There's one thing, you vexatious boy," said Judy; "your uncles will give you up."

"They have done that already," said David quietly.

"Have they? O have they really, mamma? Then they won't give him their money when they die! nor me neither. You hateful fellow! to go and make me poor as well as yourself." And Judy began to cry. "I thought we'd be so rich, mamma!"

"Do hold your tongue, Judy," said her mother. "You've got enough, and David much more than enough."

But with this the uncomfortable breakfast party broke up.

"Matilda," said Mrs. Laval when they had gone upstairs, – "I don't know whether you have done good or harm."

"She's done no good, mamma," said Norton. "Just look at Davy. And I can tell you, grandmamma is beginning to read the Bible to herself; I've seen her at it."

"But I haven't done anything, mamma," said Matilda.

"Well, my dear, I don't know who has, then," Mrs. Laval replied.

And the subject was dropped. But certainly Mrs. Lloyd did begin after that to ask Matilda now and then, when they were alone, to read to her; and Matilda found that David did it constantly, by his grandmother's desire, in her own room.

The weeks were few now to the time when the household would break up; Mrs. Laval and her children to return to Briery Bank, Mrs. Bartholomew and hers for a cottage at Newport. Mrs. Lloyd was accustomed to abide generally with the latter. All the members of the family were busied with their various preparations; and the unsettled feeling of coming change was upon the whole household. Little else was thought of. So when an invitation came from the mother of Esther Francis, that all the young ones should join a party of pleasure that were going to spend the day in Westchester, it was a very unlooked for variety in the general course of things. Of course they would go. The young people were to eat strawberries and do everything else that was pleasant, at General Francis's place. Mrs. Francis was not yet ready to leave town; there was nobody in possession but the servants; the widest liberty would be the rule of the day.

"How nice that the boys are out of school!" said Matilda. "Term just ended."

"Of course. Couldn't have the party without the people," said Judy.

"Will there be a great many, Norton?" Matilda asked.

"Don't know anything about it. You must ask somebody else. Esther Francis isn't our cousin."

"How dry you are," said David. "I know no more about it, Matilda, than he does."

"Esther said there would be twenty or thirty," said Judy. "How are we going? that's what I want to know."

"Take the Harlem railroad to the station," said Norton, "and drive the rest. That's the way you always go to General Francis's. Mamma! I'd like to drive Pink out. It's only thirteen miles."

"I'm afraid, Norton. I think you had better all go together."

Norton grumbled a little; however, it was good enough even so.

The day was the first of June; fresh and sweet as the first of June should be. The four were in the cars early; and as soon as the train had got quit of the city, the sights and smells of the country roused Matilda to the highest pitch of delight. Such green fields! such blue sky! such delicious air! and such varieties of pleasant objects that she had not seen for some time! The rush to the station was one whirl of pleasure; then the pleasure grew greater, for they got into a carriage to drive across the country. Every foot of the way, though it was not through a very enchanting landscape, was joyous to Matilda's vision; and when the grounds were reached of General Francis's villa, there was nothing more left in this world to desire. For there were plantations of trees, extending far and wide, with roads and paths cut through them; over which the young fresh foliage cast the sweetest of shadow. There were meadows, broad and fair, green and smooth, with a little river winding along in them, and scattered trees here and there for shade, and fringes of willows and alders to the sides of the stream. And at a little distance stood the large old house, with groves of trees encircling it and lawns before and on one side of it; and on the side lawn, in the edge of the grove, long tables set and spread with damask.

"Dinner already?" queried Norton. "I am hungry enough."

"Dinner at ten o' clock!" cried Judy. "Breakfast, you mean."

"Esther, is it breakfast?" asked Norton, as their little hostess came to them.

"It is what you like, Mr. Laval," said the little lady; whose pink bows were not more in style than her manners.

"Norton is hungry, Esther," David remarked.

"I hope you are, too."

"What are you going to give us, Esther?" said Judy eagerly. "We are all like bears. Strawberries?"

"We must wait for another carriage. The Grandsons are coming."

"I wouldn't wait," said Judy. "What's the use? Ten o' clock is late enough for breakfast."

"But we shall not have the collation till three."

"What have you got for breakfast?"

"Coffee."

"And strawberries?"

"Haven't you had any strawberries this year?"

"Lots; but not in the country, you know, where they grow."

"And not with such yellow cream as we have got from our dairy."

"Will you have cream enough for all, Esther?" David asked, as coming round the house they saw a small crowd of young people collected near the tables. Esther smiled and bridled, and then there was no more private talk, but a whole chorus of greetings and questions and answers. And then another carriage drew up, with the missing Grandsons; and the party went to breakfast.

It seemed to Matilda that to eat under the shadow of trees, and on the carpet of the grass, and with the music of leaves and insects and breezes, was the very most delightful thing that could be invented. She was very hungry, no doubt; and Mrs. Francis's excellent cook had made capital provision for her young mistress; but besides all that, how pretty it was! The light flickered through the oak leaves upon the white tablecloths, and gleamed from china and glass and silver in the most cheery way; it gleamed upon the little river too and upon the blades of grass on the lawn. Out there the sunshine was full; the eye went across to the scattered trees and to the further woods on the other side; a great promising playground it looked. And then the air was so sweet and fresh. Matilda was not seated very well for her pleasure; nobody near that she knew very well; nevertheless she eat her strawberries and cream and devoured rolls and butter with a contented appreciation of what she had, and an amused observation of what was around her.

How were they to spend the day?

This question received earnest attention as soon as the business of breakfast was off their hands.

"Day is pretty well gone already," said Norton consulting his watch. "It is twelve o' clock. There is not time for anything else but to have dinner and go home."

"We do not dine till four o' clock," Esther announced.

"Four hours," said somebody. "Time enough to get hungry again. I'll take anybody that wants to go a row on the river; if somebody'll help me row."

"Everybody do what everybody likes until three o' clock," said Esther. "Suppose then, at three o' clock, we all gather in the pavilion and have games?"

Unanimous acceptance of this proposal. Then a flutter and division and scattering of the little crowd.

Matilda wondered what she would do, or be asked to do. She would have liked the sail on the Bronx; but so would a good many more. The little boat was very soon filled with the eager applicants, and David volunteered to help row it. One of Matilda's friends was thus removed from her. She turned to look for Norton. He was not to be seen. A general stampede of the boys to the stables made it supposable that he was in the midst of the gay little group rushing that way. Matilda looked around her. The tables were deserted; the little boat had disappeared up the stream; all the boys were gone; and one or two groups of girls, unknown to her, were loitering over the grass towards the house. A flush of vexation and embarrassment came over Matilda. Was this civility? and what was she to do with herself for three hours to come? And how disagreeable, to be regarded as of no consequence and no concern to anybody. Tears swelled in their fountains, but Matilda was not going to cry. She would not linger alone by the table; she did not know her way in the house, and besides would not seek those who should properly seek her; she turned her steps to the little river. The flowing water had a great charm for her; the bank was smooth and green; she wandered along till she came to what she called a nice place, where a young willow hung over and dipped its long branches in, and the bank offered a soft shady seat. Matilda sat down, and felt very lonely. But glimpses taken through the trees and shrubbery shewed her nobody near or far, except the servants; and Matilda resolved to be quiet and wait for better things by and by. She looked at her watch; it was half past twelve. I am bound to confess it was a good half hour more before Matilda could get the better of a desperate fit of disappointment and vexation. She had not counted upon spending her holiday in this manner; and slights and unkindness are pleasant to nobody. There is something in use, however, and more in a quiet mind. The little girl's roiled feelings at last ran clear again; and she began to enjoy things after her own fashion.

The ripple and flow of that water was certainly delicious; it made one cool only to hear it. She could get down to the brink too and cautiously dip her hand in. There were little fishes in a shallow there; their play and movement were very amusing, and Matilda went into deep speculation about how much they knew, and what they felt, and what their manner of life amounted to, and how they probably regarded the strange creature looking down at them. Very much she wondered what they could eat to live upon. The water plants that grew along the stream had Matilda's attention too, and the mosses that covered the stones. And one or two grasshoppers finally proved a great source of entertainment. She quite forgot to feel lonely, and was taking her enjoyment in a very harmonious way; when she heard a different swash of the water and the dip of oars, and the boat shot round a curve and came down the stream. She watched it, wondering whether its crew would see her. Just opposite her willow the oars stopped.

"Is that you, Tilly?" David cried.

A small "yes" came from the bank.

"What are you doing there?"

"O, amusing myself."

"Where is everybody else?"

"I don't know."

"Where's Norton?"

"I don't know. I think he went to see the horses."

"Come down to the landing," said David after a moment's pause.

Matilda nodded, and the boat shot forward again. It had turns to take following the course of the stream; while she on the land could cut across points, and she reached the landing place the first.

The little party landed with cries of pleasure, and the next thing, set off on a run for the house. David purposely hung back, so that he and Matilda in a few minutes were behind all the others.

"Where is everybody?" inquired David.

"I don't know."

"What have you been doing all this while?"

"It was very pretty down by the water, David. I didn't mind; – at least, not after the first. It was very pleasant there."

"All alone?"

"Yes; except the fishes and the grasshoppers."

"Well – I shall cut out the fishes now."

David kept his word. A deputation of the boys met them and begged him to go where the others were riding. David went, but kept hold of Matilda's hand, though warned that "the girls" were finding other amusements in the house. Matilda was taken into the meadow where the boys and the horses were congregated; a safe seat was found for her on the wall, from whence she could survey the whole field; and though David took his share in the amusements that followed, riding and racing with the other boys, he never let her feel herself forgotten or alone; stopping his horse every now and then in front of her to say something and find out if she was happy. Matilda was very happy, greatly amused, and intensely pleased that David had constituted himself her protector. The hours sped along; the soft June sun was never too hot; the little white clouds that crossed the sky cast shadows not needed for the busy pleasure seekers, nor even for the quiet spectator. At last Matilda heard a shout behind her.

CHAPTER XV

"What are you doing, you boyish girl?" It was Judy, at the head of the whole bevy of young ones from the house.

"I didn't know what had become of you, Matilda," said Esther.

"Come down!" said Judy. "What business have you there? Who asked you to watch the boys? Why don't you come down? On the wall, too! Esther didn't invite you there."

"Esther didn't invite me anywhere," said Matilda, with the old inevitable set of her head, which said much more than the little girl knew. Esther felt it, and Judy was incensed.

"I would be ashamed, if I were you," she said. "Tell the boys, will you, that we are ready for the games. Call somebody. Shout! now you are up there, make yourself useful."

Matilda preferred not to shout. Instead of that, she waved her handkerchief. David rode up, the message was given. Then Norton came to help Matilda down from the wall; and soon the whole party gathered in the pavilion. This was rather more than a summer house; a large saloon, with windows and glass doors on all sides, furnished with lounges and easy chairs and tables, with a carpet on the floor, and kept with all the nicety of the house itself. Warm and tired and happy, the little company was ready for quiet amusements; and they played games of various kinds until the gong called them to dinner. That was to have been the end of the day's entertainment; but a storm had come up while they were at the table, and the rain fell too abundantly to let anybody leave the house except those who could go in close carriages. A few were thus drafted off, belonging to neighbouring families; a goodly little company still remained who were forced to accept the housekeeper's hospitalities for the night. That was additional fun rather than inconvenience, so voted and so accepted. However, as the day began to close in and a lull fell upon all their pleasure-seeking, it began to appear that the little people were tired. Naturally; they had worked hard all day. Voices changed their tone.

"Oh dear! I wish it wouldn't rain!" cried one young lady, pressing her face against the window, down the outside of which the streams of rain drops were running fast.

"Might as well wish something else, Carrie, while you are about it," Norton said.

"I can't!"

"I wish I was home," said another.

"Wait till to-morrow, and you will have your wish."

"But I don't want to wait."

"Don't you know some new games, Esther?"

This sort of thing went on for some time till tea and cake made a diversion, and lights were brought. Then the cry was, "What shall we do all the rest of the evening?"

"I have a game for you," said David at last.

"What is it? what is it?"

"A new game."

"What is it?"

"It is called, 'Capital and Interest.'"

"I don't understand that," pouted one of the young ladies.

"You will understand it fast enough, when we come to play it."

"How do you play it?"

"You must choose a Judge and a Recorder."

"What's a Recorder?"

"Some one to put down what we say. We all tell our business; the Recorder sets it down, and the Judge says whose business is worth the most."

"How can he tell?"

"He can hear what we say, and he can use his judgment, as we all can."

"Must we tell the truth? or say what we have a mind?"

"Either you like."

"That's jolly!" said one of the boys. "I go in for saying what we have a mind."

"Just imagine the nicest things you can," David went on.

"To eat?" said Esther.

"No, no; you've done enough of that to-day," said Norton. "Imagine what you have a mind to, – every sort of thing that's pleasant."

"Well you begin, Norton, because you understand it. We'll hear you play, and so learn."

"We have got to choose the Judge first. And the Recorder."

"What's the Judge to do?"

"Say who has made the best business."

"I don't understand a bit of it," said Esther.

"No, but you will presently. You'll see. Wait till we begin. Who will you have for Judge?"

There was a general cry of "David Bartholomew!"

"No," said David, "I won't be Judge. I'll be Recorder, if you like. For Judge, I propose Norton Laval."

Norton was agreed upon unanimously.

"Now we are ready. Esther, we will begin at you. Tell what you have, or what you would like to have; and then, what you would do with it, or use it for."

"I don't know what you mean," said Esther.

"You are not tied to facts. Tell what you like. What would you most like?"

"Most like?" repeated Esther. "Let me see. It's very hard to begin with me, when I don't know the game. Let us see. I think I should like to have the most beautiful diamonds in New York."

"Very good," said Norton. "Now tell what you would do with them."

"Do with them? Why, wear them, of course."

"Of course," said Norton. "But the diamonds are your capital, you understand; what interest will you get for your capital? What good will they do you, Esther? that's it."

"What good?" said Esther. "Why, if I had the finest jewels of anybody, don't you see I should outshine everybody?"

"I don't see it," said Norton; "but then I'm not in that line. It's your business we are talking of. Put it down properly, Recorder. Now Bob Francis – what's your idea of a jolly life, eh?"

"I don't know!" said Bob. He was a year older than his sister; not a year brighter.

"O yes, you do. Fancy – but I don't believe you can fancy. What would you like best, Bob? – come!"

"I'd like as well as anything to be a cavalry officer, and have nothing to do but ride."

"A cavalry officer has a great deal to do, I can tell you, my fine fellow, besides riding," said David.

"O well; I don't want to have anything else to do," said Bob. "I'd cut school; it's a bore."

"But you can't ride always. What will be the good of your riding when you are sick, or get old?"

"O then I'll die," said Bob contentedly.

"Let it stand, Davy," said Norton. "Write him down, with a horse and a saddle for his capital and riding his business. Who's next? Hatty Delaplaine! What will you have?"

Hatty, a pale, freckled girl, with twinkling gray eyes, was ready with her answer.

"I'd like to have Stewart's store, all to myself, and a dressmaker."