Opportunities Part 25

said Matilda. "Let's make haste."

"Then I'll let the kitchen fire go out," said Maria; "and we'll dine on bread and b.u.t.ter, 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 b.u.t.ter 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 b.u.t.ternut 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 b.u.t.ternut 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 paris.h.i.+oner'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 pa.s.sion 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."