Opportunities Part 36

Mother and daughter looked at each other. The lace had fallen from Matilda's hands to the ground.

"Did he give no name?"

"It's just what he didn't, then. Only he jumped down, and axed was the chilt ready. I tould him sure I didn't know, and he said would I go see. An' what 'll I say to him, thin? for he's waitin'."

"I'll speak to him myself," said Mrs. Candy. "Go on with your work, Matilda."

But in a few minutes she came back, and bade the trembling child put up her lace and put on her hat, and go. I am afraid the leave-taking was a short affair; for two minutes had hardly pa.s.sed when Matilda stood in the hall, and Norton caught her by both hands.

"Norton!" she cried.

"Yes, I've come for you. Come, Matilda, your trunk's in."

"Where are we going?" Matilda asked, as she let herself be led and placed in the carriage, which was a low basket phaeton.

"Where are we going!" echoed Norton. "Where is it likely we are going, with you and your trunk? Where did you mean to go to-day, Pink?"

"I don't know. I didn't know anything about it. O Norton, are we going to your house!"

"If Tom knows the road," said Norton, coolly; "and I rather think the ponies do, if he don't. Why, Pink! do you mean to tell me you didn't know you were coming to us?"

"I didn't know a word about it."

"Nor how mamma went to ask for you?"

"Aunt Candy didn't tell me."

"Did she tell you you were going anywhere?"

"Yes. She made me pack up my clothes, but that's all."

"Didn't you ask her?"

Matilda shook her head. "I never do ask Aunt Candy anything."

"Why?" said Norton, curiously.

"I don't like to--and she don't like to have me."

"She must be a nice woman to live with," said Norton. "You'll miss her badly, I should say. Aren't you sorry, Pink?" he asked, suddenly, taking Matilda's chin in his hand to watch the answer she would give.

The answer, all smiling and blus.h.i.+ng, contented Norton; and the next instant the gray ponies swept in at the iron gate and brought them before the house door.

Matilda jumped out of the carriage with a feeling of being in an impossible dream. But her boot felt the rough gravel of the roadway; the sun was s.h.i.+ning still and warm on the lawn and the trees; the mid-country, rich-coloured with hues of autumn, lay glittering in light; the blue hills were over against her sleeping in haze; the gray ponies were trotting off round the sweep, and had left her and Norton standing before the house. It was all real and not a dream; and she turned to Norton who was watching her, with another smile so warm and glad, that the boy's face grew bright to see it. And then there was Mrs. Laval, coming out on the verandah.

"My dear child!" she exclaimed, folding Matilda in her arms. "My dear child! I have had hard work to get you; but here you are."

"Mamma, she did not know she was coming," said Norton, "till I came for her."

"Not know it?" said Mrs. Laval, holding her back to look at her. "Why, child, you have grown thin!"

"It's the hot weather, Aunt Candy says."

"And pale!" said Mrs. Laval. "Yes, you have; pale and thin. Have you been ill?"

"No, ma'am," said Matilda; but her eyes were watering now in very gladness and tenderness.

"Not ill?" said the lady. "And yet you are changed,--I do not know how; it isn't all thinness, or paleness. What is the matter with you, dear?"

"Nothing--only I am so glad," Matilda managed to say, as Mrs. Laval's arms again came round her. The eyes of mother and son met expressively.

"I don't like to see people cry for gladness," whispered the lady.

"That is being entirely too glad. Let us go and see where you are to live while you are with me. Norton, send York up with her box."

Matilda shook herself mentally, and went up-stairs with Mrs. Laval.

Such easy, soft-going stairs! and then the wide light corridor with its great end window; and then Mrs. Laval went into a room which Matilda guessed was her own, and through that pa.s.sed to another, smaller, but large enough still, where she paused.

"You shall be here," she said; "close by me; so that you cannot feel lonely."

"Oh, I could not feel lonely," cried Matilda. "I have a room by myself at home."

"But not far away from other people, I suppose. Your sister is near you, is she not?"

"Oh, Maria is gone, long ago."

"Gone? What, entirely? Not out of the village?"

"She is in Poughkeepsie. I have not seen her in a great many weeks."

"Was that her own wish?"

"Oh no, ma'am; she was very sorry to go."

"Well, you must have been very sorry too. Now, dear, here are drawers for you; and see, here is a closet for hanging up things; and here is your was.h.i.+ng closet with hot and cold water; the hot is the right hand one of these two faucets. And I hope you will be happy here, darling."

She spoke very kindly; so kindly that Matilda did not know how to answer. I suppose her face answered for her; for Mrs. Laval, instead of presently leading the way down-stairs again, sat down in a chair by one of the windows and drew Matilda into her arras. She took off her hat, and smoothed away the hair from her forehead, and looked in her face, with eyes that were curiously wistful and noteful of her. And Matilda's eyes, wondering, went over the mid-country to the blue mountains, as she thought what a new friend G.o.d had given her.

"Are you well, dear?" said the lady's voice in her ear softly.

"Quite well, ma'am."

"What has changed you so since last June?"

"I didn't know that I was changed," Matilda said, wondering again.

"Are you happy, my love?"

The question was put very softly, and yet Matilda started and looked into Mrs. Laval's eyes to see what her thought was.

"Yes," said the lady, smiling; "I asked you if you were quite happy.