Trading

"Nicely!" repeated Norton. "She doesn't care any more for the flowers than if they were grown to make door mats of. Greenhouse! why, it's as much as I can do to prevent her pulling all the buds off; and when she's got them, as I said, she don't care the least for them. No; the one thing Judy Bartholomew cares for is mischief; and the second is her own way."

"Gently, Norton!" said his mother. "I know somebody else that likes his own way."

"Yes, ma'am, and can't get it – worse luck!"

"O Norton!" said Matilda.

"Well I'd just like to have you tell me then, how I'm to get Judy Bartholomew out of my greenhouse!"

"How did you get her in?" asked his mother.

"I went into partnership with her."

"And I ask, why?"

"Because she had money, mamma; and I wanted the greenhouse in order; and Pink wouldn't."

"Couldn't" – said Matilda. She did not feel like using many words just then.

"Pink, mamma, is the very worst person in the world about having her own way."

"And the very best person in the world about being sick."

"How, mamma?" said Matilda. "I haven't done anything at all but lie still and be taken care of."

"Mamma, she looks pale; and her voice sounds thin; aren't you going to give her something to strengthen her up?"

"She is going to have her supper in a few minutes."

"What are you going to give her?"

"Roast oysters and bread and butter."

"That sounds jolly. I'd stay and have some too; only I have got to see a fellow round the corner. Good-bye, Pink. I'm off. Eat as many oysters as you can!"

And off he ran. Matilda was disappointed; she was very fond of him, and she thought he might have liked better to stay with her this first evening. A little creeping feeling of homesickness came over her; not for any place that was once called home, but for the clinging affection of more hands and voices than one.

"He's a boy, dear," said Mrs. Laval, noticing her look. "Boys cannot bear to be shut up, even with what they love the best. And you are a girl – just full of womanly tenderness. I see it well enough. You will have something to bear in this world, my child. Boys will be boys, and men will be men; but Norton loves you dearly, for all that."

"I know he does, mamma," said Matilda.

But when a few minutes later, Mrs. Laval was called downstairs to see somebody, the feeling she had kept back rushed upon her again. She wanted something she had not got. And she began to think of her best Friend. Matilda had not forgotten him; yet through these days of sickness and weakness, and the constant presence of somebody in her room, she had missed for a long time her Bible readings and all but very short and scattering prayer. She recollected this now; and longing after the comfort of a nearer thought of God and closer feeling of his presence, she got up out of her chair and tottered across the room, holding by everything in her way, to the place where she kept her Bible. Once back in her easy chair, she had to rest a bit before she could read; then she found a place of sweet words that she knew, and rested herself in a more thorough fashion over them.

She was bending down with her volume in her hand to catch the fading light from the window, when another visiter came in. It was David Bartholomew, who having knocked and fancied that he heard the word of permission, walked in and was at her side before she knew it. Matilda started, and then looked very much pleased.

"You are not strong enough to be studying," David said kindly.

"O I am not studying."

"What have you got there that interests you so much, then? to be bending over it like that."

Now Matilda was afraid to say she was reading the Bible, knowing in what abhorrence David held part of her Bible; so she answered with a quick sort of instinct, "It was only a chapter in Isaiah, David."

"Isaiah!" he repeated; "our Isaiah? Let me see, please."

He took the book and looked keenly at the page.

"What interested you so here, Matilda?"

"I was reading that little twelfth chapter. I was thinking of those 'wells of salvation.'"

She was trembling with the fear of saying something or other to displease him, afraid to answer at all; but the simplest answer seemed the best; and she prayed for wisdom and boldness. David was looking hard at the page, and alternately at her.

"It is our Isaiah," he said, turning the leaves back and forward; "it is our Scriptures; but not the Hebrew. I shall learn to read the Hebrew. What were you thinking about the 'wells of salvation,' Matilda?"

Matilda was getting very nervous; but as before, she answered simply the truth.

"I was thinking how sweet the water is."

"You?" said David, with a depth of astonishment which might have made her laugh if she had not been so frightened. "You? what do you know of them, or think you know? These words belong to the time of Messiah ben David."

"Yes," said Matilda.

"What do you think you know about them?"

Matilda thought within herself that here was the end of David's friendship for her. Her heart sank, yet she spoke as before.

"I have drawn water out of them, David; and I know that the water is sweet."

He stood and looked at her, as if he were full of something to say; but perhaps he guessed at her reference, or perhaps he saw her too feeble to be attacked with exciting topics. He shut his mouth and said nothing; and just then the servant entered bearing the tray with Matilda's supper. That made a nice diversion. I think David was glad of it. At any rate he made himself useful; brought up the little table to Matilda's side; set the tea-pot out of her way and spread her napkin on her lap. Then, hearing that Mrs. Laval was detained downstairs, he took the management of things upon himself. He made Matilda's cup of tea; he spread bread and butter; he opened oysters. Nobody could have done it better; but it was always acknowledged that David Bartholomew was born a gentleman. Matilda enjoyed it hugely. She was ready for her oysters, as a little convalescent child should be; and bread and butter was good; but to have David helping her and ministering to her gave to both an exquisite flavour. He was so nice about it, and it was so kind of him.

"That other supper has been sadly put off, hasn't it?" he said as he opened Matilda's last oyster.

"What supper?" said Matilda.

"The supper we had arranged so finely, a long while ago. The celebration of your good woman's moving in."

"My good woman? – O, you mean Mrs. Staples. She hasn't moved in yet?"

"No! we waited for you to get well."

"Waited all this while!" said Matilda. "David, I wonder when I shall be able to go out?"

"Not in a good while, Tilly, to any such entertainment as that. I dare say you can go driving in the Park in two or three weeks."

"But she cannot wait all that while!" said Matilda; and then she stopped. If not, then the moving of Mrs. Staples, and all the delight of the supper to be prepared for her, and the pleasure of seeing her pleasure, must be for others; not for the little planner and contriver of the whole. For a minute Matilda felt as if she could not give it up; this rare and exquisite joy; such a chance might not come again in a very long while. She wanted to see how the stove would work; she wanted to hear the kettle sing, and to set the table with the new cups and saucers, and to make the tea that first time, and give the in comers a welcome. Could all that be lost? It seemed very hard. Matilda's eyes filled with tears.

"What is the matter?" said David kindly.

Matilda struggled to speak. She knew what she must say; but at first she could hardly get the words out. She hesitated, and David repeated his question.

"It won't do for them to wait so long," she said, lifting her eyes to his face.

"Who? your poor people there? Well, it does seem a pity, looking at the place where they are now."

"It won't do," Matilda repeated. "It is best for them to go right in, David. But I can't manage it. I can't do anything."

"Will you trust me?"

"O yes! if you'll do it. But won't it be a great trouble to you, David?"

"On the contrary, I shall like it capitally. You tell me exactly what you want done, and I'll attend to it."

"O thank you! Then you'll have to get the supper things, David."

"Yes, I know all about that."

"And get Mr. Wharncliffe to tell Mrs. Staples."

"Yes."

"And – can you buy some calico for me?"

"Certainly. But I'd put something warmer on them than calico, Tilly."

"What?"

"I don't know," said David laughingly; "I don't know what women wear. But I suppose I can find out. Something warm, Tilly; the air is snapping and biting out of doors, I can tell you."

"O well, do see about it as soon as you can, David, and let them move in by Saturday; can't you?"

David promised. And when he was gone, and Matilda was alone in bed again at night, she fought out her whole fight with disappointment. Rather a hard fight it was. Matilda did not see why, when she was about a very good thing, so much of the pleasure of it should have been taken away from her. Why could not her sickness have been delayed for one week? and now the very flower and charm of her scheme must fall into the hands of others. She dwelt upon the details, from which she had looked for so much pleasure, and poured out hearty tears over them. She was as much in the dark nearly as Job had been; as much at a loss to know why all this should have befallen her. All the comfort she could get at was in imagining the scenes she could not now see, and fancying all over and over to herself how Sarah and her mother would look and feel.

After that day Matilda's improvement was steady. Soon she had Norton and Judy and even David running in and out at all hours, to see her or to tell her something.

"Great news," said Norton bursting in as usual one evening. "What do you think, Pink? David and Judy have been to be catechized."

"Catechized?" Matilda repeated. "Do they learn the catechism?"

"Not yours, I promise you," said Norton. "No, not exactly. But they have been to a Jewish catechizing; to be examined in the Jews' Scriptures, you know, and all that. They ought to have been catechized, it seems, when they were younger; but David and Judy have been travelling about and there has been no chance. Now they've got it! And O how Davy has been studying his Bible."

"His Bible is just like ours, isn't it? – all but the New Testament?"

"He thinks that's a pretty large 'all but.'"

"But the rest is just the same as ours?"

"I suppose so; yes, I believe so. And they have had a great time, and Davy has come off with a blue ribband or something, and been greatly distinguished."

"Well?" said Matilda eagerly.

"Well. They all went to it, grandma and aunt Judy, and they don't know whether they are most pleased or most vexed."

"Vexed?" repeated Matilda.

"Yes. You see, their Jew friends and relations are getting great hold of Davy; and now I suppose he will be more of a Jew than ever."

"How will that make him different?" said Matilda, puzzled.

"Different?" said Norton. "Why, you don't think Jews are like all the rest of the world, do you?"

"I don't know," Matilda answered. "I think – if I was a Jew – I would like it."

To which Norton answered at first with a questioning frown; then cleared his brow and laughed.

"You'd like anything that made you different from the rest of the world," he said. "But you're a Pink! and that makes it of course."

"You used to say I was a brick," said Matilda.

"So you are. I'll fight any boy that says you aren't."

But that made Matilda laugh so much that Mrs. Laval, coming in, was afraid she would fatigue herself; and she sent Norton away. Matilda after this was very curious and a little anxious to see David, and find out what change his being "more of a Jew than ever" would have made in him. When he came, she could not find any change. It was Saturday evening, after tea; so rather late. He came to bring her the news she wanted.

"Well, it's done, Matilda," he said as he entered.

"And all right, David?"

"Right as can be. Don't you get excited, and I will tell you all about it."

"You are very kind, David," said Matilda, trying to be quiet; but there were two pink spots on her pale cheeks.

"The carpet was down, and made the place look like another thing. Then Mrs. Leary had brightened up the bureau and the chairs and table, and blacked the stove and made a fire. It seemed quite like a home waiting for somebody. Mrs. Leary folded her arms, and made me take notice what she had done, and 'expicted I would consider it,' she said."

"Expected you would consider it?" said Matilda.

"Yes. Don't you know what that means? Expected I would pay her for her trouble."

"Ah!" said Matilda. "Did you?"

"Yes, of course. But I made her make up the bed and fill the kettle before she had done. 'An' sure it was iligant, and fit for society,' she said; whatever that meant."

"Fit for company, I suppose, David. But who made the coffee?"

"Wait a bit: I'm coming to that. I was in a puzzle about it; for I wasn't sure of Mrs. Leary, and Norton and I didn't know enough."

"Norton? was Norton there?"

"To be sure; at first. He and I got everything else together. Mrs. Leary had washed the china and the tin ware; and we bought cheese, and tea and coffee, and herring, and buns, and gingerbread."

"And bread?" said Matilda, looking in tensely interested.

"No; buns. And soap we ordered in too, Tilly; Norton is great on soap. I should never have thought of it. And when we had done all we could think of, we sat down to watch the fire and guard the things till some body came. And we got talking about something else and forgot where we were; when all of a sudden the door pushed softly open and a girl came in – "

"Sarah!" cried Matilda.

"Wait. There came in this girl, and stood there, looking. And we looked. 'Is this Mrs. Leary's?' she asked. 'No,' said I; 'the rest of the house is. Mrs. Leary's, I believe; but this room belongs to Mrs. Staples.' 'And you're Sarah, aren't you?' Norton cried out. I wish you had seen the girl, Tilly! She came a little way further in, and stopped and looked round, and had all the work in the world to keep herself from breaking down and crying. Her face flushed all over. She wanted to know if we were sure if there was no mistake? So I told her about you, and how you were sick, and how you had commissioned us to get ready all these things; and Norton shewed her where to hang her bonnet and shawl; for she was in a bewildered state. And then I bethought me and told her we wanted somebody to make the coffee. I think, Tilly, she was as near the condition of Aladdin, when he got into the magician s cave, as ever a mortal could be in this actual world. But she went to work, and that helped her to feel she was not dreaming, I suppose. She made the coffee, – and all the while I could see her fingers trembling; – and she cooked the herring; and I stood it, herring smoke and all; it was the best fun I've seen this winter – "

"Since Christmas," Matilda put in, but her own eyes were very bright and glittering.

"Christmas was nothing to it!"

"I wish I had been there."

"I wish you had. There was nothing else wanting. And I wish you could have seen Sarah's eyes; I think she was afraid to look around her. She would give a glance at something, the chest of drawers, or the bed, and then the tears would spring and she would have just as much as she could do to mind her cooking and not break down. I didn't know coffee smelt so good, Tilly."

"Doesn't it!"

"You know about that, eh? Well, we were all ready, and Sarah set the table, but Norton and I had to bring out the buns and gingerbread and the cheese; for I don't think she would have dared. And then the door opened once more, and in came Mr. Wharncliffe, and Sarah's mother and those two poor little imps of boys."

"I don't know much about them," said Matilda.

"I know they are very ragged. Of course, how could they help it? The mother looked as if she would easily fall to pieces too. But I saw the smell of the coffee brightened her up."

"And then you came away, I suppose?"

"Yes, of course. Mr. Wharncliffe just saw that everything was right and looked after the coal and things; and then we left them to take their supper in peace."

"I'm so glad!" said Matilda, heaving a deep sigh. "And I am very much obliged to you, David."

"For nothing," said David. "I had a good time, I can tell you. I should just like to do the whole thing over again. Why, it didn't cost much."

"Only Mr. Wharncliffe says we have to be very careful to know about people first, before we give them things; there are so many deceivers."

"Yes, I know that," said David. He stood looking into the light and thinking. Matilda wondered what he was thinking about; she could not ask him as she would Norton.

"It isn't right!" he broke out.

"What, David?"

"It isn't right that there should be such a difference in people; we here, and they there."

"Mr. Wharncliffe says there must be a difference. Some people are clever and industrious, and others are idle and lazy; and that makes differences."

"That ought," said David; "but then the people that are not idle or lazy, but sick or unfortunate, like these people; they ought not to be left in hunger and cold and rags."

"So I think," said Matilda eagerly; and then she stopped; for she was not so free with David as to tell him all her thoughts; at least not unless he asked for them.

"It puzzles me," David went on. "I can't see my way out of the puzzle; only I am sure there is wrong somewhere."

"And it must be right for each of us to do all he can to help," said Matilda.

David shook his head. "One goes very little way."

"But that is all we can do. And if every one would – "

"Every one will not, Tilly; there it is."

"No. I know it; but still, David, people have to do so."

"So how?"

"Why, each one by himself, I mean."

"Well," said David, smiling, "that's safe for you. I mean to study the subject."

CHAPTER VII

Matilda was slow in getting over her sickness. It would not do to think of lessons or let her do anything that would weary her. Instead of that, she was taken to drive, and supplied with materials and patterns for worsted work, and had books at command. Whatever would please her, in short; at least whatever Mrs. Laval could think of; for Matilda made no demands on anybody. She was very happy; feeling well but weak, just so as to draw out everybody's kindness; and obliged to be quiet enough to thoroughly enjoy her happiness. She made great progress in the affections of the family during this rime; they found a sweetness and grace and modesty in her that presently seemed like to make her the house darling. "She is not selfish," said Mrs. Lloyd. "She is really a very graceful little thing," said Mrs. Bartholomew. "She is honest," said David. "She is the gentlest, most dutiful child in the world," said Mrs. Laval; but Mrs. Laval did not say much about it. She was growing excessively fond of Matilda. Norton declared she was a brick. Judy said nothing. Then they would begin again. "She is a thoroughly courteous child," said Mrs. Lloyd. "I do think she is a good little thing," said Mrs. Bartholomew. "She has her own opinions," said Norton, who liked her the better for it. "They are not bad opinions either," remarked David.

"Aren't they!" put in Judy. "Wise and extremely courteous she was about the liqueur glasses, don't you think so?"

"What about the liqueur glasses?" Mrs. Lloyd demanded; and though Norton and David both tried to stop the recital, out it would come, for the second time. Judy would not be stopped. Mrs. Lloyd seemed rather serious but by no means as much disgusted as Judy would have liked.

"She had her own opinions, as Norton says," David remarked; "but she behaved perfectly well about the whole affair; perfectly courteous, Judy."

"Very ridiculous, though, for such a child," his mother added.

"How should she be courteous?" said Judy, scornfully. "She has had no sort of bringing up."

"I should be glad to see you as courteous, and as graceful about it," said Mrs. Bartholomew. Whereat Judy tossed her head spitefully and meditated mischief.

They did not know how it was. All was true they had said respecting Matilda's manners; and this was the secret of them; she was most simply trying to live up to her motto. For this Matilda studied her Bible, watched, and prayed. It was not herself she was thinking of, or trying to please; her obedience and her pleasantness and her smallest actions were full of the very spirit of reverence and good-will; no wonder it was all done gracefully. The days and weeks of sickness and feebleness had been a good time for the little girl, and the kindness she received made her heart very tender. She sought ways to please; above all, ways to please God. It was in doing "all in the name of the Lord Jesus" that her manners became so lovely and her presence so welcome to almost all the family; and her happy little face was an attraction for even old Mrs. Lloyd, who did not confess to finding many things in the whole world attractive now. But Judy vowed in secret she would disturb this opinion of Matilda, if she could manage it.

So she chose her time. Mrs. Lloyd, and indeed all the elders of the family, were extremely particular and punctilious about table manners; exacting the utmost care and elegance in everything that was done. One Sunday there was company at dinner; only one or two gentlemen who were familiar friends, however, so that the young people were not debarred their weekly pleasure and privilege of dining with their grandmother. Judy managed to place herself next to Matilda, and held her position, though Norton as openly as he dared reminded her she had no right to be there. It was impossible to make a disturbance and he was obliged to give up the point. Matilda wondered at what she supposed an uncommon mark of favour in Judy; and resolved to be as nice a neighbour as she could. There was not much chance, for of course talking, except a low word now and then, was out of the question. It happened that one of the servants was for some reason out of the way, and there was not the usual abundant service of the table. Just when everybody was helped, Judy somewhat officiously handed somebody's plate to Matilda to be passed for some oysters. The plate came back to her full; it had meat and gravy and oysters and maccaroni on it, and was heavy as well as full. Carefully giving it, as she thought, into Judy's hand, Matilda was dismayed to find it seemingly slip from her own; and down it went, taking impartially Judy's dress and her own in its way. Turkey gravy and oysters lodged on Judy's blue silk; while the maccaroni, rich with butter and cheese, made an impression never to be effaced on Matilda's crimson. The little girl absolutely grew pale as she looked down at the disastrous state of things, and then up at Judy. Judy's eyes were snapping.

"Did I do that?" said Matilda, in a bewildered consciousness that she had not done it.

"O, I guess not," replied Judy; in a tone which civilly said, "Of course you did!" Matilda dared not look at anybody else.

"You had better go up and change your dress, Matilda," said Mrs. Laval gravely. And Matilda went, greatly disconcerted. She was a very dainty child herself; rudeness and awkwardness were almost as abhorrent to her as they were even to Mrs. Lloyd; and now she felt that she had disgraced herself, mortified Mrs. Laval, and displeased the old lady; besides drawing down the censure and slighting remark of Mrs. Bartholomew. But had she done the thing? She was supposed to have done it, that was clear, from the tone of Mrs. Lloyd's voice and from Mrs. Laval's command, as well as from Judy's words; that young lady herself had kept her place in the dining room, for all that appeared. And Matilda's beautiful crimson dress was spoiled. No doubt about it; when she had got it off and looked at it she saw that the butter and cheese had done their work too thoroughly to leave any hope that it might be undone. No acid or French chalk would be of any avail there. Poor Matilda! she was very much dismayed. She had a particular fancy for the colour of that dress; it was a beautiful shade; and Mrs. Laval liked it; and Matilda wondered if she was displeased; and wondered with still increasing persuasion that the fault had not lain with her. But who could prove that? And as it was, the charge of gross carelessness and inelegance lay at her door; a charge above others that she was unwilling to bear.