Opportunities

"She is as mean as she can live!" said Maria again. "But Tilly, I don't believe Lilac Lane is a good place for you, neither. What did you want to do there? what could you do?"

"Things," said Matilda, indefinitely.

"You are not old enough to go poking about Lilac Lane by yourself."

"I can't go any way," said Matilda.

She cried a long while to wash down this disappointment, and the effects of it did not go off in the tears. The child became very silent and sober. Her duties she did, as she had done them, about the house and in Mrs. Candy's room; but the bright face and the glad ways were gone. In the secret of her private hours Matilda had struggles to go through that left her with the marks of care upon her all the rest of the time.

The next Sunday she was made to go to church with her aunt. She went to her own Sunday-school in the afternoon; but she was not allowed to get off early enough for the reading and talk with Mary and Ailie. Lem Dow, however, was on hand; that was one single drop of comfort. He looked for his sugared almonds and they were on hand too; and besides that, Matilda was able to see that he was quite pleased with the place and the singing and the doings in his class, and making friends with the boys.

"Will you come next Sunday?" Matilda asked him, as they were going out. He nodded.

"Won't Jemima come too, if you ask her?"

"I won't ask her."

"No? why not?"

"I don't want her to come."

"You don't want her to come? Why it is a pleasant place, isn't it?"

"It's a heap more jolly if she ain't here," said Lem, knowingly.

It was a difficult argument to answer, with one whose general benevolence was not very full grown yet. Matilda went home thinking how many people wanted something done for them, and how she could touch nobody. She was not allowed to go to church in the evening.

CHAPTER VI

The days seemed to move slowly. They were such troublesome days to Matilda. From the morning bath, which was simply her detestation, all through the long hours of reading, and patching, and darning in Mrs. Candy's room, the time dragged; and no sooner was dinner over, than she began to dread the next morning again. It was not so much for the cold water as for the relentless hand that applied it. Matilda greatly resented having it applied to her at all by any hand but her own; it was an aggravation that her aunt minded that, and her, no more than if she had been a baby. It was a daily trial, and daily trouble; for Matilda was obliged to conquer herself, and be silent, and submit where her whole soul rose and rebelled. She must not speak her anger, and pleadings were entirely disregarded. So she ran down in the morning when her aunt's bell rang, and was passive under all that Mrs. Candy pleased to inflict; and commanded herself when she wanted to cry for vexation, and was still when words of entreaty or defiance rose to her lips. The sharp lesson of self-control Matilda was learning now. She had to practise it again when she took her hours of needlework. Mrs. Candy was teaching her now to knit, and now to mend lace, and then to make buttonholes; and she required perfection; and Matilda was forced to be very patient, and careful to the extreme of carefulness, and docile when her work was pulled out, and persevering when she was quite tired and longed to go down and help Maria in the kitchen. She was learning useful arts, no doubt, but Matilda did not care for them; all the while the most valuable thing she was learning was the lesson of power over herself. Well if that were all. But there were some things also down in the bottom of Matilda's heart which it was not good to learn; and she knew it; but she did not know very well how to help it.

Several weeks had gone by in this manner, and now June was about over. Matilda had not gone to Lilac Lane again, nor seen Norton, nor made any of her purchases for Mrs. Eldridge. She had almost given all that up. She wondered that she saw nothing of Norton; but if he had ever come to the house she had not heard of it. Matilda was not allowed to go out in the evening now any more. No more Band meetings, or prayer meetings, or church service in the evening for her. And in the morning of Sunday Mrs. Candy was very apt to carry her off to her own church, which Matilda disliked beyond all expression. But she went as quietly as if she had liked it.

Things were in this state, when one evening Maria came up to bed and burst out as soon as she had got into the room, —

"Think of it! They are going to New York to-morrow."

Matilda was bewildered, and asked who was going to New York.

"They. Aunt Erminia and Clarissa. To be gone all day! Hurrah! We'll have just what we like for dinner, and I'll let the kitchen fire go out."

"Are they going down to New York to-morrow?" said Matilda, standing and looking at her sister.

"By the early train. Don't you hear me tell you?"

"I thought it was too good news to be true," said Matilda, drawing a long breath.

"It is, almost; but they are going. They are going to do shopping. That's what it's for. And I say, Matilda, won't we have a great dinner to get!"

"They will want dinner after they get home."

"No, they won't. They will take dinner somehow down there. Why they will not be home, Tilly, till nine o'clock. They can't. The train don't get up till a quarter-past eight, that train they are going to take; and they will have to be an hour pretty near riding up from the station. Hurrah! hurrah!"

"Hush! don't make so much noise. They will hear you."

"No, they won't. They have come up to bed. We are to have breakfast at six o'clock. We shall have all the longer day."

"Then I hope Aunt Candy will not have time to give me my bath."

"No, she won't; she told me to tell you. You are to be ever so early, and help me to get the breakfast. I shall not know what to do with the day, though, I shall want to do so much. That is the worst of it."

Matilda thought she would be under no such difficulty, if only her way were not so hedged in. The things she would have liked to do were forbidden things. She might not go to Lilac Lane; she might not go to Mrs. Laval's. She half expected that her aunt would say she must not go out of the house at all. That misfortune, however, did not happen. The early breakfast and bustle and arrangements for getting off occupied Mrs. Candy so completely that she gave no commands whatever. The omnibus fairly drove away with her, and left Maria and Matilda unrestricted by any new restrictions.

"It seems," said Matilda, gravely, as they stood by the gate, "it seems as if I could see the sky again. I haven't seen it this great while."

"Seen the sky!" said Maria; "what has ailed you? You have gone out often enough."

"It didn't seem as if I could see the sky," said Matilda, gazing up into the living blue depth above her. "I can see it now."

"You are funny," said Maria. "It don't seem to me as if I had seen anything, for weeks. Dear me! to-day will be only too short."

"It is half-past six now," said Matilda. "Between now and nine o'clock to-night there are – let me see; half-past twelve will be six hours, and half-past six will be twelve hours; six, seven, eight, nine, – nine will be two hours and a half more; that will be fourteen and a half hours."

"Fourteen," said Maria, "That half we shall be expecting them."

"Well, we've got to go in and put the house in order, first thing," said Matilda. "Let's make haste."

"Then I'll let the kitchen fire go out," said Maria; "and we'll dine on bread and butter, and cold potatoes. I like cold potatoes; don't you?"

"No," said Matilda; "but I don't care what we have. I'll have bread and butter and cold coffee, Maria; let us save the coffee. That will do."

With these arrangements made, the day began. The two girls flew round in a kind of glee to put the rooms up and get all the work done out of the way. Work was a kind of play that morning. Then they agreed to take their dinner early and dress themselves. Maria was going out after that to see some friends and have some fun, she said. Matilda on her part had a sort of faint hope that to-day, when it would be so opportune, it might happen that Norton Laval would come to see what had become of her. She was almost afraid to go out and lose the chance; though, to be sure, it was only the ghost of a chance. Yet for that ghost of a chance she did linger and wait in the house for an hour or two after Maria had gone out. Then it began to press upon her that her aunt had ordered her to get some strawberries from Mr. Sample's for tea; she was uneasy till it was done, and at last took her hat and her basket and resolved to run round into Butternut Street and get that off her mind.

She was standing in Mr. Sample's shop, patiently waiting until her turn should come to be served, when a hand was laid upon her shoulder.

"How do you do, Tilly? You are grown a stranger."

"O Mr. Richmond!" was Matilda's startled response. And it was more startled than glad.

"What is the matter? you look as if I had frightened you, – almost," said the minister, smiling. Matilda did not say what was the matter.

"Have you been quite well?"

"Yes sir."

"You were not in your place on Sunday."

"No, sir."

And Matilda's tone of voice gave an unconscious commentary upon her very few words.

"And you have not been to take tea with me in a great while."

"No, Mr. Richmond."

"Suppose you come to-day."

"Oh, I cannot, sir."

"Why not? I think you can."

"I don't know whether my aunt would let me."

"We will go and ask her."

"Oh no, sir; she is not at home, Mr. Richmond. She has gone to New York."

"For how long?"

"Only till nine o'clock to-night."

"Then there can be no possible harm in your coming to take tea at the parsonage."

"I don't know whether she would let me," said Matilda, with an evident intimation that the doubt was barrier enough.

"You think she would not like it?"

"I think – perhaps – she would not. Thank you, Mr. Richmond!"

"But, Tilly, I want to talk to you. Have you nothing to say to me?"

"Yes, sir. A great deal," said the child, with the look of slow meditation. The minister considered her for a moment.

"I shall take the decision of the question upon myself, Tilly, and I will make it all right with your aunt. Come to the parsonage, or rather, go to the parsonage; and I will join you there presently. I have half an hour's business first to attend to. You must carry those strawberries home? Very well; then go straight to the parsonage and wait there for me."

And with an encouraging nod and smile, Mr. Richmond walked off. Matilda took her basket home; carried the key of the house door to Maria at Mrs. Trembleton's; and set her face up Butternut Street.

She was very glad; it seemed like getting out of prison; though she was not altogether satisfied in her mind that Mr. Richmond might be able to make it all right with Mrs. Candy. She was obliged to risk that, for Mr. Richmond's invitation had had the force of an injunction. So she took the good of the moment, and turned in at the gate of the parsonage lane with something like a feeling of exultation and triumph. The shadow of the elms was sweet on the road; the smooth quiet of the grounds, railed off from worldly business and care, seemed proper only to the houses of peace which stood upon them. The old creamy-brown church on one side; on the other the pretty new Sunday-school house; in front, at the end of the avenue of elms, the brown door of the parsonage. Matilda felt as if her own life had got away from out of peaceful enclosures; and she walked up the avenue slowly; too slowly for such a young life-traveller. She had no need to knock this time, but just opened the door and went straight to Mr. Richmond's study.

That was peace itself. It was almost too pleasant, to Matilda's fancy. A cool matting was on the floor; the light softened by green hanging blinds; the soft gloom of books, as usual, all about; Mr. Richmond's table, and work materials, and empty chair telling of his habitual occupation; and on his table a jar of beautiful flowers, which some parishioner's careful hand had brought for his pleasure. The room was sweet with geranium and lily odours; and so still and pure-breathed, that the flowers in their depth of colour and wealth of fragrance seemed to speak through the stillness. Matilda did not ask what they said, though maybe she heard. She came a little way into the room, stood still and looked about her a while; and then the child flung herself down on her knees beside a chair and burst into a passion of weeping.

It lasted so long and was so violent that she never heard Mr. Richmond come in. And he on his part was astonished. At the first sound of his voice Matilda stopped crying and let him raise her from the floor; but he did not put her into a chair. Instead of that he sat down himself and drew her to his side. Of course he asked what the matter was. Also, of course, Matilda could not tell him. Mr. Richmond found that out, and then took another road to his object. He let Matilda get quite quiet; gave her a bunch of grapes to eat, while he seemed to busy himself among his books and papers; at last put that down, and took Matilda's plate from her.

"You do not come to church in the evening lately, I observe, Tilly," he remarked.

"No, sir. Aunt Candy does not like me to go."

"And you have not been to the prayer meeting either, or to the meetings of our Commission. The 'Band' is called our 'Christian Commission,' now."

"No, sir." And Matilda's eyes watered.

"For the same reason?"

"Yes, sir."

"Not because you have lost pleasure in such meetings?"

"Oh no, Mr. Richmond! Did you think I had?" she asked, timidly.

"I could not know, you know," said Mr. Richmond, "and I wanted to ask you. I am very glad to hear it is no bad reason that keeps you away."

"I didn't say that, Mr. Richmond," Matilda answered, slowly. "Could it be a good reason?"

"Why, it might," said Mr. Richmond, cheerfully. "You might be not well enough; or you might have more important duties to do at home; or you might be unwilling to come alone; and all those might be good reasons for staying away."

"It was no such reason," said Matilda.

There was silence.

"You wanted to talk to me, you said," Mr. Richmond observed.

"Yes, Mr. Richmond, I do; if I only knew how."

"Is it so difficult? It never used to be very difficult, Matilda."

"No, sir; but things are – different."

"You are not different, are you?"

"I don't know," said Matilda, slowly; "I am afraid so. I feel very different."

"In what way?"

"Mr. Richmond," she went on, still slowly, and as if she were meditating her words, – "I don't see how I can do just right."

"In what respect?" said the minister, very quietly. Again Matilda paused.

"Mr. Richmond, is it always wrong to hate people?"

"What things should make it right for us to hate people?"

"I don't know," said Matilda in the same considering way, "when there isn't the least thing you can love them for, or like them?"

"What if the Lord had gone by that rule in dealing with us?"

"Oh, but He is so good."

"And has commanded us to be just as good, has He not?"

"But can we, Mr. Richmond?"

"What do you think, Tilly, the Lord meant when He gave us the order?"

"He meant we should try."

"Do you think He meant that we should only try? do you think He did not mean that we should be as He said?"

"And love hateful people?"

"What do you think, Tilly?"

"O Mr. Richmond, I think I'm not good."

"What is the matter, my dear child?" Mr. Richmond said tenderly, as Matilda burst into quiet tears again. "What troubles you?"

"That, Mr. Richmond. I'm afraid I am not good, for I am not like that; and I don't see how I can be."

"What is the hindrance? or the difficulty?"

"Because, Mr. Richmond, I am afraid I hate my Aunt Candy."

Mr. Richmond was quite silent, and Matilda sobbed awhile.

"Do I understand you aright?" he said, at last. "Do you say that you hate your aunt?"

"I am afraid I do."

"Why should you hate her? Is she not very kind to you?"

"I do not call her kind," said Matilda.

"In what respect is she not kind?"

The child sobbed again, with the unspoken difficulty; stifled sobs.

"She is not cruel to you?" said Mr. Richmond.

"I think she is cruel," said Matilda; "for she does not in the least care about doing things that I do not like; she does not care at all whether I like them or not. I think she likes it."

"What?"

"Just to do things that I can't bear, Mr. Richmond; and she knows I can't bear them."

"What is her reason for doing these things?"

"I think the greatest reason is because she knows I can't bear them. I think I am growing wicked."

"Is it because you displease her in any way, that she does it for a punishment?"

"I do not displease her in any way," said poor Matilda.

"And yet she likes to grieve you?"

"She said I wanted putting down. And now, I suppose I am put down. I am just in prison. I can't do anything. I can't go to Mrs. Laval's house any more. I must not go to Lilac Lane any more. She won't let me. And O Mr. Richmond, we were going to do such nice things!"

"Who were going to do such nice things?"

"Norton Laval and I."

"What things were they?"

"We were going to do such nice things! Mrs. Laval gave me money for them, and Norton, he has money always; and we were going to have Mrs. Eldridge's house cleaned, and get a bedstead, and towels, and a table, and ever so many things for her, to make her comfortable; and I thought it would be so pleasant to get the things and take them to her. And aunt Candy says I am not to go again."

"Did you tell your aunt what you were going to do?"

"Oh no, sir; she thinks I have no business with such things; and she does not like anybody to go into very poor houses."

"Then you did not ask her leave?"

"It never is any use to ask her anything. She won't let me go out to church now, except in the morning, and then sometimes she makes me go with her."

Mr. Richmond was silent for some time. Matilda grew quiet, and they both were still.

"And the worst of it all is," resumed Matilda, at last, "that it makes me hate her."

"I do not like to hear you say that."

"No, Mr. Richmond," said Matilda, very sorrowfully.

"Do you think it is right?"

"No, sir."

"Do you think you cannot help doing what is wrong."

"I don't think I can like Aunt Candy."

"We will pass that. But between not liking and hating, there is a wide distance. Are you obliged to hate her?"

Matilda did not answer.

"Do you think anybody can be a child of God and have hatred in his heart?"

"How can I help it, Mr. Richmond?" said Matilda, piteously.

"How can you help anything? The best way is to be so full of love to Jesus that you love everybody for his sake."

"But people that are not good," said Matilda.

"It is easy to love people that are good. The wonder of the love of the Lord Jesus is, that it comes to people who are not good. And His children are like Him. 'Be ye followers of God,' He tells them, 'as dear children; and walk in love.'"

"I am not like that, Mr. Richmond," Matilda said, sadly.

"Didn't you love little Lem Dow? I am sure he is not very good."

"But he never troubled me, much," said Matilda. "He does not make me miserable all the day long."

Mr. Richmond paused again.

"Our Master knew what it was to be ill-treated by bad people, Matilda."

"Yes, Mr. Richmond."

"How did he feel towards them?"

"Oh, but I am not like that," said Matilda again.

"You must be, if you are His child."

"Must I?" said Matilda, the tears dropping from her eyes quietly. "How can I? If you only knew, Mr. Richmond!"

"No matter; the Lord knows. Tell Him all about it, and pray to be made so like Him and to love Him so well that you may love even this unkind friend."

"I don't think she is my friend," said Matilda; "but it don't make any difference."

"No, it does not make any difference."

"Mr. Richmond," said Matilda, timidly, after a moment, "won't you pray with me?"

Which the minister instantly did. Matilda wept quietly all the time of his prayer, and after they rose from their knees, leaning her head on Mr. Richmond's shoulder, where she had poured out her troubles once before. Her friend let her alone, keeping his arm round her kindly, till the child raised her head and wiped her eyes.

"Do you feel better?" he whispered then. Matilda answered "yes," in an answering whisper.

"But Mr. Richmond," she said, presently, "I am very sorry for Lilac Lane."

"I am very sorry," he said.

"There is the money in my purse, all ready, and our list of things. It would have been so pleasant."

"Very pleasant," Mr. Richmond answered.

"And now I can't do Band work any more," Matilda went on. "I have no opportunities for anything any more. I cannot do anything at all."

"There might be something to say about that," Mr. Richmond replied; "but I think you have had enough talk just now. Is your sorrow on account of Lilac Lane because you have lost the pleasure? or because Mrs. Eldridge has lost it?"

"Why, both," said Matilda.

"I suppose so. Would it be any comfort to you to know that the work was done, even though you did not see it?"

"What, you mean the house cleaned and the things got, and Mrs. Eldridge fixed up as we meant to do it?"

"I mean that."

"Oh yes," said Matilda. "If I could know it was done, I would not be half so sorry about it. But Norton can't manage alone; and Maria has no time."

"No, but somebody else might. Now go off and talk to Miss Redwood; and make some more gingerbread or something; and after tea we will see about your lost opportunities if you like."

"Would Miss Redwood do all that for me?" said Matilda.

"You can consult her and find out."

CHAPTER VII

Miss Redwood was mopping up the yellow painted floor of her kitchen, as Matilda softly pushed open the door and looked in.

"Who's that?" said the housekeeper. "Floor's all wet; and I don't want no company till there's a place for 'em to be. Stop! is that Tilly Englefield? Why, I declare it is! Come right in, child. You're the greatest stranger in town."

"But I am afraid to come in, Miss Redwood."

"Then you're easy scared. Come in, child. Step up on that cheer, and sit down on my table. There! now I can look at you, and you can look at me, if you want to. I'll be through directly, and it won't take this paint no time to dry. How's all the folks at your house?"

"Gone to New York for the day; Aunt Candy and Cousin Clarissa are."

"Wouldn't ha' hurted 'em to have took you along. Why didn't they?"

"Oh they were going shopping," said Matilda.

"Well, had you any objections to go shopping?" said the housekeeper, sitting back on her feet and wringing her cloth, as she looked at Matilda perched up on the table.

"I hadn't any shopping to do, you know," said Matilda.

"I hain't no shopping to do, nother," said Miss Redwood, resuming her work vigorously; "but I always like to see other folks' goins on. It's a play to me, jest to go in 'long o' somebody else and see 'em pull down all the things, and turn over all the colours in the rainbow, and suit themselves with purchases I wouldn't look at, and leave my gowns and shawls high and dry on the shelf. And when I go out, I have bought as many dresses as they have, and I have kept my money for all."

"But sometimes people buy what you would like too, Miss Redwood, don't they?"

"Well, child, not often; 'cause, you see, folks's minds is sot on different things; and somehow, folks's gowns have a way o' comin' out o' their hearts. I kin tell, pretty well, what sort o' disposition there is inside of a dress, or under a bonnet, without askin' nobody to give me a character. What's be come o' you all these days? Ha' you made any more gingerbread?"

"No."

"I guess you've forgotten all about it, then. What's the reason, eh?"

"I have been too busy, Miss Redwood."

"Goin' to school again?"