What She Could

"The Dows'!" said Maria. "Yes, I know the Dows' house; but who's there? Nothing but old folks."

"Yes, there are two children; I have seen them; two or three; but they don't come to school."

"Then I don't believe they want to," said Maria; "they could come if they wanted to, I am sure."

"Don't you think we might go and ask them? Perhaps they would come if anybody asked them."

"Yes, we might," said Maria; "but you see, Tilly, I haven't any time. It'll take me every bit of time I can get between now and Sunday to finish putting the braid on that frock; you have no idea how much time it takes. It curls round this way, and then twists over that way, and then gives two curls, so and so; and it takes a great while to do it. I almost wish I had chosen an easier pattern; only this is so pretty."

"But you promised, Maria."

"I didn't promise to go and look up people, child. I only promised to do what I could. Besides, what have you got to do with it? You did not promise at all."

"I will go with you, if you will go up to the Dows'," said Matilda.

"Oh, well! – don't worry, and I'll see about it."

"But will you go? Come, Maria, let us go."

"When?"

"Any afternoon. To-morrow."

"What makes you want to go?" said Maria, looking at her.

"I think you ought to go," Matilda answered, demurely.

"And I say, what have you got to do with it? I don't see what particular concern of mine the Dows are, anyhow."

Matilda sat a long while thinking after this speech. She was on the floor, pulling off her stockings and unlacing her boots; and while her fingers moved slowly, drawing out the laces, her cogitations were very busy. What concern were the Dows of hers or Maria's? They were not pleasant people to go near, she judged, from the look of their house and dooryard as she had seen it in passing; and the uncombed, fly-away head of the little girl gave her a shudder as she remembered it. They were not people that were often seen in church; they could not be good; maybe they used bad language; certainly they could not be expected to know how to "behave." Slowly the laces were pulled out of Matilda's boots, and her face grew into portentous gravity.

"Aren't you coming to bed?" said Maria. "What can you be thinking of?"

"I am thinking of the Dows?"

"What about them? I never thought about them three times in my life."

"But oughtn't we to think about people, Maria?"

"Nice people."

"I mean, people that are not nice."

"It will be new times when you do," said Maria. "Come! let the Dows alone and come to bed."

"Maria," said her little sister as she obeyed this request, "I was thinking that Jesus thought about people that were not nice."

"Well?" said Maria. "Do lie down! what is the use of getting into bed, if you are going to sit bolt upright like that and talk lectures? I don't see what has got into you."

"Maria, it seems to me, now I think of it, that those were the particular people He did care about."

"Don't you think He cared about good people?" said Maria, indignantly.

"But they were not good at first. Nobody was good at first – till He made them good. He said He didn't come to the good people; don't you remember?"

"Well, what do you mean by all that? Are we not to care for anybody but the people that are not good? A nice life we should have of it?"

"Maria," said her little sister, very thoughtfully, "I wonder what sort of a life He had?"

"Tilly!" said Maria, rising up in her turn, "what has come to you? What book have you been reading? I shall tell mamma."

"I have not been reading any book," said Matilda.

"Then lie down and quit talking. How do you expect I am going to sleep?"

"Let us go and see what we can do at the Dows, Maria, to-morrow, won't you?"

But Maria either did not or would not hear; so the matter passed for that night. But the next day Matilda brought it up again. Maria found excuses to put her off. Matilda, however, was not to be put off permanently; she never forgot; and day after day the subject came up for discussion, until Maria at last consented.

"I am going because you tease me so, Tilly," she said, as they set forth from the gate. "Just for that and nothing else. I don't like it a bit."

"But you promised."

"I didn't."

"To bring in new scholars?"

"I did not promise I would bring the Dow children; and I don't believe they'll come."

The walk before the children was not long, and yet it almost took them out of the village. They passed the corner this time without turning, keeping the road, which was indeed part of the great high road which took Shadywalk in its way, as it took many another village. The houses in this direction soon began to scatter further apart from each other. They were houses of more pretension, too, with grounds and gardens and fruit trees about them; and built in styles that were notable, if not according to any particular rule. Soon the ground began to descend sharply towards the bed of a brook, which brawled along with impetuous waters towards a mill somewhere out of sight. It was a full, fine stream, mimicking the rapids and eddies of larger streams, with all their life and fury given to its smaller current. The waters looked black and wintry in contrast with the white snow of the shores. A foot-bridge spanned the brook, alongside of another bridge for carriages; and just beyond, the black walls of a ruin showed where another fine mill had once stood. That mill had been burnt. It was an old story; the girls did not so much as think about it now. Matilda's glance had gone the other way, where the stream rushed along from under the bridge and hurried down a winding glen, bordered by a road that seemed well traversed. A house could be seen down the glen, just where the road turned in company with the brook and was lost to view.

"I wonder who lives down there?" said Matilda.

"I don't know. Yes, I do, too; but I have forgotten."

"I wonder if they come to church."

"I don't know that; and I shall not go to ask them. Why, Matilda, you never cared before whether people went to church."

"Don't you care now?" was Matilda's rejoinder.

"No! I don't care. I don't know those people. They may go to fifty churches, for aught I can tell."

"But, Maria," – said her little sister.

"What?"

"I do not understand you."

"Very likely. That isn't strange."

"But, Maria, – you promised the other night – O Maria, what things you promised!"

"What then?" said Maria. "What do you mean? What did I promise?"

"You promised you would be a servant of Christ," Matilda said, anxiously.

"Well, what if I did?" said Maria. "Of course I did; what then. Am I to find out whether everybody in Shadywalk goes to church, because I promised that? It is not my business."

"Whose business is it?"

"It is Mr. Richmond's business and Mr. Everett's business; and Mr. Schönflocker's business. I don't see what makes it mine."

"Then you ought not to have said that you would bring new scholars to the school, I think, if you did not mean to do it; and whom do you mean to carry the message to, Maria? You said you would carry the message."

"I don't know what carrying the message means," said Maria.

Matilda let the question drop, and they went on their way in silence; rising now by another steep ascent on the other side of the brook, having crossed the bridge. The hill was steep enough to give their lungs play without talking. At the top of the hill the road forked; one branch turned off southwards; the high road turned east; the sisters followed this. A little way further, and both slackened their steps involuntarily as the house they were going to came full in view.

It was like a great many others; brown with the weather, and having a certain forlorn look that a house gets when there are no loving eyes within it to care how it looks. The doors did not hang straight; the windows had broken panes; a tub here and a broken pitcher there stood in sight of every passer-by. A thin wreath of smoke curled up from the chimney, so it was certain that people lived there; but nothing else looked like it. The girls went in through the rickety gate. Over the house the bare branches of a cherry tree gave no promise of summery bloom; and some tufts of brown stems standing up from the snow hardly suggested the gay hollyhocks of the last season. The two girls slackened their steps yet more, and seemed not to know very well how to go on.

"I don't like it, Tilly," Maria said. "I have a mind to give it up."

"Oh, I wouldn't, Maria," the little one replied; but she looked puzzled and doubtful.

"Well, suppose they don't want to see us in here? it don't look as if they did."

"We can try, Maria; it will do no harm to try."

"I don't know that," said Maria. "I'll never come such an errand again, Matilda; never! I give you notice of that. What shall I do? Knock?"

"I suppose so."

Maria knocked. The next minute the upper half of the door was opened, and an oldish woman looked out. A dirty woman, with her hair all in fly-away order, and her dress very slatternly as well as soiled.

"What do you want?"

"Are there some children here?" Maria began.

"Children? yes, there's children here. There's my children."

"Do they go to school?"

"Has somebody been stealin' something, and you want to know if it's my children have done it?" said the woman. "'Cos they don't go to no school that you ever see."

"I did not mean any such thing," said Maria, quite taken aback.

"Well, what did you mean?" the woman asked sharply.

"We want to see the children," Matilda put in. "May we come in and get warm, if you please?"

The woman still held the door in her hand, and looked at the last speaker from head to foot; then half reluctantly opened the door.

"I don't know as it'll hurt you to come in," she said; "but it won't do you much good; the place is all in a clutter, and it always is. Come along in, if you want to! and shut the door; 'tain't so warm here you'll need the wind in to help you. Want the children, did you say? what do you want of 'em?"

Matilda thought privately that the wind would have been a good companion after all; no sooner was the door shut, than all remembrance of fresh air faded away. An inexpressible atmosphere filled the house, in which frying fat, smoke, soapsuds, and the odour of old garments, mingled and combined in proportions known to none but such dwelling-places. Yet it was not as bad as it might have been, by many degrees; the house was a little frame house, open at the joints; and it stood in the midst of heaven's free air; all the winds that came from the mountains and the river swept over and around it, came down the chimney sometimes, and breathed blessed breaths through every opening door and shackling window-frame. But to Matilda it seemed as bad as could be. So it seemed to her eyes too. Nothing clean; nothing comfortable; nothing in order; scraps of dinner on the floor; scraps of work under the table; a dirty cat in the corner by the stove; a wash tub occupying the other corner. The woman had her sleeves rolled up, and now plunged her arms into the tub again.

"You can put in a stick of wood, if you want to," she said; "I guess the fire's got down. What did you come here for, hey? I hain't heard that yet, and I'm in a takin' to find out."

"We thought maybe your children might like to go to Sunday-School," said Maria, with a great deal of trepidation; "and we just came to ask them. That's all."

"How did ye know but they went already?" the woman asked, looking at Maria from the corner of her eye.

"I didn't know. I just came to ask them."

"Well, I just advise you not to mix yourself with people's affairs till you do know a little about 'em. What business is it o' yourn, eh, whether my children goes to Sunday-School? Sunday-School! what a poke it is!"

"They did not come to our Sunday-School," said Matilda, for her sister was nonplussed; "and we would like to have them come; unless they were going somewhere else."

"They may speak for themselves," said Mrs. Dow; and she opened an inner door, and called in a shrill voice – "Araminty! – Jemimy! – Alexander! – come right along down, and if ye don't I'll whip ye."

She went back to her washing-tub, and Maria and Matilda looked to see three depressed specimens of young human life appear at that inner door; but first tumbled down and burst in a sturdy, rugged young rascal of some eight or nine years; and after him a girl a little older, with the blackest of black eyes and hair, the latter hanging straight over her face and ears. The eyes of both fastened upon their strange visitors, and seemed as if they would move no more.

"Them girls is come to get you to their Sunday-School," said the mother. "Don't you want for to go?"

No answer, and no move of the black eyes. Matilda certainly thought they looked as if they feared the lifting of no mortal hand, their mother's or any other.

"Would you like to go to Sunday-School?" inquired Maria politely, driven to speak by the necessities of the silence. But she might as well have asked Mrs. Dow's wash-tub. The mother laughed a little to herself.

"Guess you might as well go along back the road ye come!" she said. "You won't get my Araminty Jemimy into no Sunday-School o' yourn this time. Maybe when she's growed older and wiser-like, she'll come and see you. She don' know what a Sunday-School's like. She thinks it's some sort of a trap."

"I ain't afraid!" spoke out black eyes.

"I didn't say you was," said her mother. "I might ha' said you was cunnin' enough to keep your foot out of it."

"It is not a trap," said Matilda, boldly. "It is a pleasant place, where we sing, and learn nice things."

"My children don't want to learn none o' your nice things," said the woman. "I can teach 'em to home."

"But you don't!" said black eyes. "You don't never learn us nothing!"

There was not the slightest sweet desire of learning evidenced in this speech. It breathed nothing but defiance.

"Alexander, won't you come?" said Matilda, timidly, as her sister moved to the door. For Maria's courage gave out. But at that question the young urchin addressed set up a roar of hoarse laughter, throwing himself down and rolling over on the floor. His mother shoved him out of her way with a push that was very like a kick, and his sister, seizing a wringing wet piece of clothes from the wash-tub, dropped it spitefully on his head. There was promise of a fight; and Matilda and Maria hurried out. They hastened their steps through the garden, and even out in the high road they ran a little to get away from Mrs. Dow's neighbourhood.

"Well!" said Maria, "what do you think now, Tilly? I hope you have got enough for once of this kind of thing. I promise you I have."

"Hush!" said Matilda. "Some one is calling."

They stopped and turned. A shout was certainly sent after them from the gate they had quitted – "Girls, hollo! – Sunday-School girls, hollo!"

"Do you hear?" said Matilda.

"Sunday-School girls! – come back!"

"What can they want?" said Maria.

"We must go see," said Matilda.

So they went towards the gate again. By the gate they could soon see the shock head of Alexander; he had got rid of the wash-tub and his mother and his sister – all three; and he was waiting there to speak to them. The girls hurried up again till they confronted his grinning face on the other side of the gate.

"What do you want?" said Maria. "What do you call us back for?"

"I didn't call you," said the boy.

"Yes, you did; you called us back; and we have come back all this way. What do you want to say?"

Alexander's face was dull, even in his triumph. No sparkle or gleam of mischief prepared the girls for his next speech.

"I say – ain't you green!"

But another shout of rude laughter followed it; and another roll and tumble, though these last were on the snow. Maria and her sister turned and walked away till out of hearing.

"I never heard of such horrible people!" said Maria; "never! And this is what you get, Matilda, by your dreadful going after Sunday-scholars and such things. I do hope you have got enough of it."

But Matilda only drew deep sighs, one after another, at intervals, and made no reply.

"Don't you see what a goose you are?" persisted Maria. "Don't you see?"

"No," said Matilda. "I don't see that."

"Well, you might. Just look at what a time we have had, only because you fancied there were two children at that house."

"Well, there are two children."

"Such children!" said Maria,

"I wish Mr. Richmond would go to see them," said Matilda.

"It would be no use for Mr. Richmond or anybody to go and see them," said Maria. "They are too wicked."

"But you cannot tell beforehand," said Matilda.

"And so I say, Tilly, the only way is to keep out of such places. I hope you'll be content now."

Matilda was hardly content; for the sighs kept coming every now and then. So they went down the hill again, and over the bridge, past the glen and the burnt mill, and began to go up on the other side. Now across the way, at the top of the bank that overhung the dell, there stood a house of more than common size and elegance, in the midst of grounds that seemed to be carefully planted. A fine brick wall enclosed these grounds on the roadside, and at the top of the hill an iron gate gave entrance to them.

"O Tilly," exclaimed Maria, "the Lardners' gate is open. Look! Suppose we go in."

"I should not like to go in," said the little one.

"Why not? There's nobody at home; they haven't come yet; and it's such a good chance. You know, Clarissa says that people have leave to go into people's great places and see them, in England, where she has been."

"But this is not a great place, and we have not leave," urged Matilda.

"Oh well, I'm going in. Come! we'll just go in for a minute. It's no harm. Come just for a minute."

Matilda, however, stopped at the gate, and stood there waiting for her sister; while Maria stepped in cautiously and made her way as far as the front of the house. Here she turned and beckoned to Matilda to join her; but the little one stood fast.

"What does she want of you?" a voice asked at her elbow. Matilda started. Two ladies were there.

"She beckoned for me to go in where she is," said Matilda.

"Well, why don't you go in?"

The voice was kindly; the face of the lady was bending towards her graciously; but who it was Matilda did not know.

"We have no leave to go in," she said. "I do not like to be there."

"I dare say the people would let you come in, if they knew you wished it."

"They do not know," said Matilda.

"What a charming child!" said the lady apart to her companion. "My dear," she went on to Matilda, "will you come in on my invitation? This is my house, and you are welcome. I shall be as glad to see you as you to see the place. Come!"

And she took Matilda's hand and led her in.

Just at the crown of the bank the house stood, and from here the view was very lovely, even now in winter. Over the wide river, which lay full in view with its ice covering, to the opposite shores and the magnificent range of mountains, which, from Matilda's window at home, she could just see in a little bit. The full range lay here before the eye, white with snow, coloured and brightened by the sinking sun, which threw wonderful lights across them, and revealed beautiful depths and shadows. Still, cold, high, far-off; their calm majesty held Matilda's eye.

"Are you looking at the mountains?" said the lady. "Yes, now come in and you shall look at my flowers. Your sister may come too," she added, nodding kindly to Maria; but she kept Matilda's hand, and so led her first upon the piazza, which was a single step above the ground, then into the hall. An octagon hall, paved with marble, and with large white statues holding post around its walls, and a vase of flowers on the balustrade at the foot of the staircase. But those were not the flowers the lady had meant; she passed on to one of the inner rooms, and from that to another, and finally into a pretty greenhouse, with glass windows looking out to the mountains and the river, filled on this side of the windows with tropical bloom. While the girls gazed in wonder, the lady stepped back into the room they had left, and threw off her wrappings. When she came again to the girls in the greenhouse, they hardly knew which to look at, her or the flowers; her dress and whole appearance were so unlike anything they had ever seen.

"Which do you like best?" she said. "The roses, you know, of course; these are camellias, – and these – and these red ones too; all camellias. These are myrtle; these are heath; these are geraniums – all those are geraniums. This is Eupatorium – those, yes, those are azaleas, and those, – and all those. Yes, all azaleas. You like them? This is bigonia. What do you like best?"

It was a long while before Matilda could divide and define her admiration enough to tell what she liked best. Carnations and heath were found at last to have her best favour. The lady cut a bouquet for her with plenty of carnations and heath, but a variety of other beauty too; then led the girls into the other room and offered them some rich cake and a glass of what Matilda supposed to be wine. She took the cake and refused the cordial.

"It is very sweet," said the lady. "You will not dislike it; and it will warm you, this cold afternoon."

"I may not drink wine, ma'am, thank you," Matilda answered.

"It is not wine. Does it make you sick, my dear? Are you afraid to try it? Your sister is not afraid. I think it will do you good."

Being thus reassured, Matilda put the glass to her lips, but immediately set it down again.

"You do not like it?" said the lady.

"I like it; but – it is strong?" said Matilda, inquiringly.

"Why, yes, it would not be good for anything if it were not strong. Never mind that – if you like it. The glass does not hold but a thimbleful, and a thimbleful will not hurt you. Why, why not, my dear?"

Matilda looked up, and coloured and hesitated.

"I have promised not," she said.

"So solemnly?" said the lady, laughing. "Is it your mother you have promised?"

"No, ma'am."

"Not your mother? You have a mother?"

"Oh yes, ma'am."

"Would she have any objection?"

"No, ma'am – I believe not."

"Then whom have you made your promise to? Is it a religious scruple that some one has taught you?"

"I have promised to do all I could for helping temperance work," Matilda said at last.

She was answered with a little ringing laugh, not unkindly but amused; and then her friend said gravely —

"Your taking a glass of cordial in this house would not affect anything or anybody, little one. It would do me no harm. I drink a glass of wine every day with my dinner. I shall go on doing it just the same. It will not make a bit of difference to me, whether you take your cordial or not."

But Matilda looked at the lady, and did not look at her glass.

"Do you think it will?" said the lady, laughing.

"No, ma'am."

"Then your promise to help temperance work does not touch the cordial."

"No ma'am, but – "

"But? – what 'but'?"

"It touches me."

"Does it?" said the lady. "That is odd. You think a promise is a promise. Here is your sister taking her cordial; she has not made the same promise, I suppose?"

Maria and Matilda glanced at each other.

"She has?" cried the lady. "Yet you see she does not think as you do about it."

The sisters did not look into each other's eyes again. Their friend watched them both.

"I should like to know whom you have made such a promise to," she said coaxingly to Matilda. "Somebody that you love well enough to make you keep it. Won't you tell me? It is not your mother, you said. To whom did you make that promise, dear?"

Matilda hesitated and looked up into the lady's face again.

"I promised – the Lord Jesus," she said.

"Good patience! she's religious!" the lady exclaimed, with a change coming over her face; Matilda could not tell what it was, only it did not look like displeasure. But she was graver than before, and she pressed the cordial no more; and at parting she told Matilda she must certainly come and see her again, and she should always have a bunch of flowers to pay her. So the girls went home, saying nothing at all to each other by the way.