The House in Town

While Matilda was making this speech, she was slowly taking out of her basket and unfolding her various bundles; she had half a hope, and no more now, that Maria would be pleased. Maria snatched the bundles, examined the handkerchiefs and counted them; then compared the gloves with her hand and laid them over it. Finally she put both gloves and handkerchiefs on the bed beside her, and went on sewing. She had not said one word about them.

"Are they right, Maria?" said her little sister. "They are the right number, I know; do you like the colours I have chosen?"

"They are well enough," Maria answered.

"Green and chocolate, I thought you liked," Matilda went on; "and the dark brown I liked. So I chose those. Do you like the handkerchiefs, Maria?"

"I want them badly enough," said Maria. "Did you get them at Cope's?"

"Yes, and I thought they were very nice. Are they?"

"A child like you doesn't know much about buying such things," said Maria, quilling and turning her blue ribband with great energy. "Yes, they'll do pretty well. What sort of handkerchiefs have you got?"

"Just my old ones. I haven't got any new ones."

"I should like to see those, when you get them. I suppose they'll be worked, and have lace round the borders."

"I shouldn't like it, if they had," said Matilda.

"We'll see, when you get them. I wonder how many things Anne and Letitia want? and can't get."

"I shall see them soon," said Matilda. "We are going to New York for the winter."

"You are!" exclaimed Maria, again ruefully. Matilda could not understand why. "But you won't see much of Anne and Letty, I don't believe."

"Perhaps I shall be going to school, and so not have much chance. Where do they live, Maria? I have forgotten."

"You will forget again," said Maria.

"But tell me, please. I will put it down."

"Number 316 Bolivar street. Now how much wiser are you?"

"Just so much," said Matilda, marking the number on a bit of paper. "I must know the name before I can find the place."

"You won't go there much," said Maria again. "Might just as well let it alone."

"Are the people here pleasant, Maria? are they good to live with?"

"They are not what you would call good."

"Are they pleasant?"

"No," said Maria. "They are not at all pleasant. I don't care who hears me say it. All the woman cares for, is to get as much work out of me as she can. That is how I live."

There was no getting to a smooth track for conversation with Maria. Begin where she would, Matilda found herself directly plunged into something disagreeable. She gave it up and sat still, watching the blue ribband curling and twisting in Maria's fingers, and wondering sadly anew why some people should be rich and others poor.

"Aren't you going to take off your things and have dinner with me?" said Maria, glancing up from her trimming.

"I cannot do that very well; Norton is coming for me; and I do not know how soon."

"I don't suppose I could give you anything you would like to eat. Where will you get your dinner then?"

"Somewhere with Norton."

"Then you didn't bring it with you?"

"No."

Matilda did not feel that it would do to-day, to invite Maria to go with them to the restaurant. Norton had said nothing about it; and in Maria's peculiar mood Matilda could not tell how she might behave herself or what she would say. Perhaps Maria expected it, but she could not help that. The time was a silent one between the sisters, until the expected knock at the house door came. It was welcome, as well as expected. Matilda got up, feeling relieved if she felt also sorry; and after kissing Maria, she ran down-stairs and found herself in the fresh open air, taking long breaths, like a person that had been shut up in a close little stove-heated room. Which she had. And Norton's cheery voice was a delightful contrast to Maria's dismal tones. With busy steps, the two went up the street again to the restaurant. It was pretty full of people now; but Norton and Matilda found an unoccupied table in a corner. There a good dinner was brought them; and the two were soon equally happy in eating it and in discussing their garden arrangements. After they had dined, Norton ordered ice cream.

Matilda was as fond of ice cream as most children are who have very seldom seen it; but while she sat enjoying it she began to think again, why she should have it and Maria not have it? The question brought up the whole previous question that had been troubling her, about the rich and the poor, and quite gave a peculiar flavour to what she was tasting. She lost some of Norton's talk about bulbs.

"Norton," she exclaimed at last suddenly, "I have found it!"

"Found what?" said Norton. "Not a blue tulip?"

"No, not a blue tulip. I have found the answer to that question you asked me, – you know, – in the cars."

"I asked you five hundred and fifty questions in the cars," said Norton. "Which one?"

"Just before we got to Poughkeepsie, don't you remember?"

"No," said Norton laughing. "I don't, of course. What was it, Pink? The idea of remembering a question!"

"Don't you remember, you asked me if I didn't like poverty and poor people, for the same reason I liked other things?"

But here Norton's amusement became quite unmanageable.

"How should you like poverty and poor people for the same reason you like other things, you delicious Pink?" he said. "How should you like those smoky coats in the omnibus, for the same reason that you like a white hyacinth or a red tulip?"

"That is what I was puzzling about, Norton; you don't recollect; and I could not make it out; because I knew I didn't enjoy poverty and poor things, and you said I ought."

"Excuse me," said Norton. "I never said you ought, in the whole course of my rational existence since I have known you."

"No, no, Norton; but don't you know, I said I liked everything, waves of the river and all, because God made them? and you thought I ought to like poor people and things for the same reason."

"O, that!" said Norton. "Well, why don't you?"

"That is what I could not tell, Norton, and I was puzzling to find out; and now I know."

"Well, why?"

"Because, God did not make them, Norton."

"Yes, he did. Doesn't he make everything?"

"In one way he does, to be sure; but then, Norton, if everybody did just right, there would be no poor people in the world; so it is not something that God has made, but something that comes because people won't do right."

"How?" said Norton.

"Why Norton, you know yourself. If everybody was good and loved everybody else as well as himself, the people who have more than enough would give to the people who are in want, and there would not be uncomfortable poor people anywhere. And that is what the Bible says. 'He that hath two coats,' – don't you remember?"

"No, I don't," said Norton. "Most people have two coats, that can afford it. What ought they to do?"

"The Bible says, 'let him impart to him that hath none.'"

"But suppose I cannot get another," said Norton; "and I want two for myself?"

"But somebody else has not one? suppose."

"I can very easily suppose it," said Norton. "As soon as we get out of the cars in New York I'll shew you a case."

"Well, Norton, that is what I said. If everybody loved those poor people, don't you see, they would have coats, and whatever they need. It is because you and I and other people don't love them enough."

"I don't love another boy well enough to give him my overcoat," said Norton. "But coats wouldn't make a great many poor people respectable. Those children in the omnibus this morning had coats on, comfortable enough; the trouble was, they were full of buckwheat cake smoke."

"Well if people are not clean, that's their own fault," said Matilda. "But those people this morning hadn't perhaps any place to be in but their kitchen. They might not be able to help it, for want of another room and another fire."

Matilda was eager, but Norton was very much amused. He ordered some more ice cream and a charlotte. Matilda eat what he gave her, but silently carried on her thoughts; these she would have given to Maria, if she could; she was having more than enough.

Moralizing was at an end when she got to the gardener's shop. The consultations and discussions which went on then, drove everything else out of her head. The matter in hand was a winter garden, for their home in New York.

"I'll have some auriculas this year," said Norton. "You wouldn't know how to manage them, Pink. You must have tulips and snowdrops; O yes, and crocuses. You can get good crocuses here. And polyanthus narcissus you can have. You will like that."

"But what will you have, Norton?"

"Auriculas. That's one thing. And then, I think I'll have some Amaryllis roots – but I won't get those here. I'll get tulips and hyacinths, Pink."

"Shall we have room for so many?"

"Lots of room. There's my room has two south windows – that's the good of being on a corner; and I don't know exactly what your room will be, but I'll get grandmother to let us live on that side of the house anyhow. Nobody else in the family cares about a south window, only you and I. Put up a dozen Van Tols, and a dozen of the hyacinths, and three polyanthus narcissus, and a dozen crocuses; – and a half dozen snowdrops."

"Will you plant them while we are in Shadywalk?"

"Of course," said Norton; "or else they'll be blossoming too late, don't you see? Unless we go to town very soon; and in that case we'll wait and keep them."

The roots were paid for and ordered to be sent by express; and at last Norton and Matilda took their journey to the station house to wait for the train. It was all a world of delight to Matilda. She watched eagerly the gathering people, the busy porters and idle hack drivers; the expectant table and waiters in the station restaurant; every detail and almost every person she saw had the charm of novelty or an interest of some sort for her unwonted eyes. And then came the rumble of the train, the snort and the whistle; and she was seated beside Norton in the car, with a place by the window where she could still watch everything. The daylight was dying along the western shore before they reached the Shadywalk station; the hills and the river seemed to Matilda like a piece of a beautiful vision; and all the day had been like a dream.

CHAPTER V

It was near dark by the time they got home, and Matilda was tired. Tea and lights and rest were very pleasant; and after tea she sat down on a cushion by Mrs. Laval's side, while Norton told over the doings of the day.

"Which room will Matilda have, mamma, in New York?" Norton asked.

"I don't know. Why are you anxious?"

"We want south windows for our plants."

"She shall have a south window," said Mrs. Laval fondly. "And I have had a letter from your grandmother, Norton. I think I shall go to town next week."

"Before December!" cried Norton. "Hurra! That is splendid. After we get into December and I am going to school, the days and the weeks get into such a progress that they trip each other up, and I don't know where I am. And there's Christmas. Mamma, don't send Pink to school! Let me teach her."

"I don't think you know very well where you are now," said his mother smiling. "What will you do with your own lessons?"

"Plenty of time," said Norton. "Too much time, in fact. Mamma, I don't think Pink would enjoy going to school."

"We will see," Mrs. Laval said. "But there is something else Pink would enjoy, I think. You have not got your allowance yet, Matilda. Have you a purse, love? or a porte-monnaie, or anything?"

"O yes, ma'am! Don't you remember, ma'am, you gave me your pocket book? a beautiful red morocco one, with a sweet smell?"

"No," said Mrs. Laval laughing.

"It was before the sickness – O, long ago; you gave it to me, with money in it, for Lilac lane."

"Is the money all gone?"

"It is all gone," said Matilda; "for you remember, Mrs. Laval, Norton and I had a great many things to get for that poor woman and her house. It took all the money."

"You had enough?"

"O yes, ma'am; Norton helped."

"Well then you have a pocket book; that will serve to hold your future supplies. I shall give you the same as I give Norton, five dollars a month; that is fifteen dollars a quarter. Out of that you will provide yourself with boots and shoes and gloves; you may consult your own taste, only you must be always nice in those respects. Here is November's five dollars."

"Mamma, November is half out," said Norton.

"Matilda has everything to get; she has to begin without such a stock as you have on hand."

"Mamma, you will give her besides for her Christmas presents, won't you?"

"Certainly. As I do you."

"How much will you give her, mamma? For I foresee we shall have a great deal of work to attend to in New York stores before Christmas; and Matilda will naturally want to know how much she has to spend."

"She can think about it," said Mrs. Laval smiling. "You do not want your Christmas money yet."

"We shall get into great trouble," said Norton with a mock serious face. "I foresee I shall have so much advising to do – and to take – that it lies like a weight on me. I can't think how Pink will settle things in her mind. At present she is under the impression that she must not keep more than one pair of boots at a time."

"You want several, my darling," said Mrs. Laval, "for different uses and occasions. Don't you understand that?"

"Yes ma'am, I always did" —

Matilda would have explained, but Norton broke in. "She thinks two overcoats at once is extravagant, mamma; I ought to give one of them away."

Matilda wanted to say that Norton was laughing, and yet what he said was partly true. She held her peace.

"You do not really think that, my darling," said Mrs. Laval, putting her arm round Matilda, and bending down her face for a kiss. "You do not think that, do you?"

It was very difficult to tell Mrs. Laval what she really did think. Matilda hesitated.

"Don't you see," said the lady, laughing and kissing her again, "don't you see that Norton wants two overcoats just as much as he wants one? The one he wears every day to school would not be fit to go to church in. Hey?" said Mrs. Laval with a third kiss.

"Mamma, there are reasons against all that; you do not understand," said Norton.

"It's very hard to say," Matilda spoke at length, rousing herself; for her head had gone down on Mrs. Laval's lap. "May I say exactly what I do mean?"

"Certainly; and Norton shall not interrupt you."

"I don't want to interrupt her," said Norton. "It is as good as a book."

"What is it, my love?"

Matilda slipped off her cushion and kneeling on the rug, with her hands still on Mrs. Laval's lap, looked off into the fire.

"The Bible says" – she began and checked herself. The Bible was not such authority there. "I was only thinking – Ma'am, you know how many poor people there are in the world?"

"Yes, dear."

"She doesn't," said Norton.

"People that have no overcoats at all, nor under coats neither, some of them. I was thinking – if all the people who have plenty, would give half to the people who have nothing, there would be nobody cold or miserable; I mean, miserable from that."

"Yes, there would, my darling," said Mrs. Laval. "People who are idle and wicked, and won't work and do not take care of what they have, they would be poor if we were to give them, not half but three quarters, of all we have. It would be all gone in a week or two; or a month or two."

Matilda looked at Mrs. Laval. "But the poor people are not always wicked?"

"Very often. Industrious and honest people need never suffer."

That would alter the case, Matilda thought. She sat back on her cushion again and laid her head down as before. But then, what meant the Bible words; "He that hath two coats, let him impart to him that hath none; and he that hath meat, let him do likewise"? The Bible could not be mistaken. Matilda was puzzled with the difficult question; and presently the warm fire and her thoughts together were too much for her. The eyelids drooped over her eyes; she was asleep. Mrs. Laval made a sign to Norton to keep quiet. Her own fingers touched tenderly the soft brown locks of the head which lay on her lap; but too softly to disturb the sleeper.

"Mamma," said Norton softly, "isn't she a darling?"

"Hush!" said Mrs. Laval. "Don't wake her."

"She is perfectly fast asleep," said Norton. "She don't sham sleeping any more than awake. Mamma, how will grandmamma like her?"

"She cannot help it," said Mrs. Laval.

"Aunt Judy won't," said Norton. "But mamma, she is twenty times prettier than Judith Bartholomew."

"She is as delicate as a little wood flower," said Mrs. Laval.

"She has more stuff than that," said Norton; "she is stiff enough to hold her head up; but I'll tell you what she is like. She is like my Penelope hyacinth."

"Your Penelope hyacinth!" Mrs. Laval echoed.

"Yes; you do not know it, mamma. It is not a white hyacinth; just off that; the most delicate rose pearl colour. Now Judy is like a purple dahlia."

"Matilda is like nothing that is not sweet," said Mrs. Laval fondly, looking at the little head.

"Well, I am sure hyacinths are sweet," said Norton. "Mamma, will you let me teach her?"

"You will not have time."

"I will. I have plenty of time."

"What will you teach her?"

"Everything I learn myself – if you say so."

"Perhaps she would like better to go to school."

"She wouldn't," said Norton. "She likes everything that I say."

"Does she!" said his mother laughing. "That is dangerous flattery, Norton."

"Her cheeks are just the colour of the inside of a pink shell," said Norton. "Mamma, there is not a thing ungraceful about her."

"Not a thing," said Mrs. Laval. "Not a movement."

"And she is so dainty," said Norton. "She is just as particular as you are, mamma."

"Or as my boy is," said his mother, putting her other hand upon his bright locks. "You are my own boy for that."

"Mamma," Norton went on, "I want you to give Pink to me."

"Yes, I know what that means," said his mother. "That will do until you get to school and are going on skating parties every other day; then you will like me to take her off your hands."

Norton however did not defend himself. He kissed his mother, and then stooped down and kissed the sleeping little face on her lap.

"Mamma, she is so funny!" he said. "She actually puzzles her head with questions about rich and poor people, and the reforms there ought to be in the world; and she thinks she ought to begin the reforms, and I ought to carry them on. It's too jolly."

"It will be a pleasure to see her pleasure in New York."

"Yes, won't it! Mamma, nobody is to take her first to the Central Park but me."

The questions about rich and poor were likely to give Matilda a good deal to do. She had been too sleepy that night to think much of anything; but the next day, when she was putting her five dollars in her pocket-book, they weighed heavy.

"And this is only for November," she said to herself; "and December's five dollars will be here directly; and January will bring five more. Fifteen. How many shoes and boots must I get for that time?"

Careful examination shewed that she had on hand one pair of boots well worn, another pair which had seen service as Sunday boots, but were quite neat yet, and one pair of nice slippers. The worn boots would not do to go out with Mrs. Laval, nor anywhere in company with Matilda's new pelisse. "They will only do to give away," she concluded. They would have seen a good deal of service in Shadywalk, if she had remained there with her aunt Candy; Mrs. Laval was another affair. One pair for every day and one pair for best, would do very well, Matilda thought. Then gloves? She must get some gloves. How many?

She went to Mr. Cope's that very afternoon, and considered all the styles of gloves he had in his shop. Fine kid gloves, she found, would eat up her money very fast. But she must have them; nothing else could be allowed to go to church or anywhere in company with Mrs. Laval, and even Norton wore nothing else when he was dressed. Matilda got two pair, dark brown and dark green; colours that she knew would wear well; though her eyes longed for a pair of beautiful tan colour. But besides these, Matilda laid in some warm worsted gloves, which she purposed to wear in ordinary or whenever she went out by herself. She had two dollars left, when this was done. The boots, Mrs. Laval had told her, she was to get in New York; she could wait till December for them.

And now everybody was in a hurry to get to New York. The house was left in charge of the Swiss servants. The grey ponies were sent down the river by the last boat from Rondout. Matilda went to see Mrs. Eldridge once, during these days of bustle and expectancy; and the visit refreshed all those questions in her mind about the use of money and the duties of rich people. So much work a little money here had done! It was not like the same place. It was a humble place doubtless, and would always be that; but there was cozy warmth instead of desolation; and comfortable tidiness and neatness instead of the wretched condition of things which had made Matilda's heart sick once; and the poor woman herself was decently dressed, and her face had brightened up wonderfully. Matilda read to her, and came away glad and thoughtful.

The farewell visit was paid at the parsonage the last thing; and on the first of December the party set out to go to the new world of the great city. It was a keen, cold winter's day; the sky bleak with driving grey clouds; the river rolling and turbulent under the same wind that sped them. Sitting next the window in the car, where she liked to sit, Matilda watched it all with untiring interest; and while she watched it, she thought by turns of Mr. Richmond's words the evening before. Matilda had asked him how she should be sure to know what was right to do always? Mr. Richmond advised her to take for her motto those words – "Whatsoever ye do, in word or deed, do all in the name of the Lord Jesus;" – and to let every question be settled by them. He said they would settle every one, if she was willing they should. And now as Matilda sat musing, she believed they would; but a doubt came up, – if she lived by that rule, and all around her without exception went by another rule, how would they get along? She was obliged to leave it; she could not tell; only the doubt came up.

It seemed a long way to New York. After Poughkeepsie had been some time left behind, Matilda began to think it was time to hear about the end of the journey; but Norton told her they were only in the Highlands. Matilda watched the changing shores, brown and cold-looking, till the hills were left behind, and the river took a look she was more accustomed to. Still Norton only laughed at her, when she appealed to him; they were not near New York, he said; it was Haverstraw bay. It seemed to take a great while to pass that bay and Tappan Sea. Then Norton pointed out to her the high straight line of shore on the opposite side of the river. "Those are the Palisades, Pink," he said; "and when you see the Palisades come to an end, then New York is not far off."

But it seemed as if the Palisades would never come to an end, in Matilda's tired fancy. She was weary of the cars by this time, and eager for the sight of the new strange place where her life was to be for so long. And the cars sped on swiftly, and still the straight line of the Palisades stretched on too. At last, at last, that straight line shewed signs of breaking down.

"Yes," said Norton, to whom Matilda pointed this out, – "we'll soon be in now, Pink."

Matilda roused up, to use her eyes with fresh vigilance. She noticed one or two places where carts and men were busy, seemingly, with the endeavour to fill up the North river; at least they were carrying out loads of earth and dumping it into the water. She was tired of talking by this time, and waited to ask an explanation till the roar of the car-wheels should be out of her ears. They came to scattered buildings; then the buildings seemed less scattered; then the train slackened its wild rate of rushing on, and Matilda could better see what she was passing. They were in a broad street at last, broader than any street in Shadywalk. But it was dismal! Was this New York? Matilda had never seen such forlorn women and children on the sidewalks at home. Nor ever so much business going on there. Everybody was busy, except one or two women lounging in a doorway. Carts, and builders, and hurried passers by; and shops and markets and grocery stores in amazing numbers and succession. But with a sort of forlornness about them. Matilda thought she would not like to have to eat the vegetables or the meat she saw displayed there.