Opportunities Part 9

"But would she like it?" Matilda asked.

"I wonder when these things _was_ washed afore," said the woman, scrubbing at them. "Like it? You kin go in and ask her."

Matilda pushed open the inner door, and somewhat reluctantly went in.

It was decent, that room was; and this disabled old woman lay under a patchwork quilt, on a bed that seemed comfortable. But the window was shut, and the air was close. It was very disagreeable.

"How do you do to-day, Mrs. Rogers?" Matilda said, stepping nearer the bed.

"Who's that?" was the question.

"Matilda Englefield."

"Who's 'Tilda Eggleford?"

"I live in the village," said Matilda. "Are you much sick?"

"Laws, I be!" said the poor woman. "It's like as if my bones was on fire, some nights. Yes, I be sick. And I'll never be no better."

"Does anybody ever come to read the Bible to you?"

"Read the Bible?" the sick woman repeated. Her face looked dull, as if there had ceased to be any thoughts behind it. Matilda wondered if it was because she had so little to think of. "What about reading the Bible?" she said.

"You cannot read lying there, can you?"

"There ain't a book nowheres in the house."

"Not a Bible?"

"A Bible? I hain't seen a Bible in five year."

"Do you remember what is in the Bible?" said Matilda, greatly shocked.

This _was_ living without air.

"Remember?" said the woman. "I'm tired o' 'membering. I'd like to go to sleep and remember no more. What's the use?"

"What do you remember?" Matilda asked in some awe.

"I remember 'most everything," said the woman, wearily. "Times when I was well and strong--and young--and had my house comfor'ble and my things respectable. Them times was once. And I had what I wanted, and could do what I had a mind to. There ain't no use in remembering. I'd like to forget. Now I lie here."

"Do you remember nothing else?" said Matilda.

"I remember it all," said the woman. "I've nothin' to do but think.

When I was first married, and just come home, and thought all the world was"--she stopped to sigh--"a garden o' posies. 'Tain't much like it--to poor folks. And I had my children around me--Sabriny's the last on 'em. She's out there, ain't she?"

"Yes."

"What's she doin'?"

"She is ironing."

"Yes; she takes in. Sabriny has it all to do. I can't do nothin'--this five year."

"May I come and see you again, Mrs. Rogers? I must go now."

"You may come if you like," was the answer. "I don't know what you should want to come for."

Matilda was afraid her fire of pine sticks would give out; and hurried across the lane again with her basket of clean things. The stove had fired up, to be sure; and Mrs. Eldridge was sitting crouched over it, with an evident sense of enjoyment that went to Matilda's heart. If the room now were but clean, she thought, and the other room; and the bed made, and Mrs. Eldridge herself. There was too much to think of; Matilda gave it up, and attended to the business in hand. The kettle boiled. She made the tea in the tea-cup; laid a herring on the stove; spread some bread and b.u.t.ter; and in a few minutes invited Mrs.

Eldridge's attention to her supper spread on a chair. The old woman drank the tea as if it were the rarest of delicacies; Matilda filled up her cup again; and then she fell to work on the fish and bread and b.u.t.ter, tearing them to pieces with her fingers, and in great though silent appreciation. Meanwhile Matilda brought the cupboard to a little order; and then filling up Mrs. Eldridge's cup for the third time, carried back the kettle to Sabrina Rogers and begged the loan of an old broom.

"What do you want to do with it?"

"Mrs. Eldridge's room wants sweeping very much."

"Likely it does! Who's a going to sweep it, though, if I lend you my broom?"

"There's n.o.body but me," said Matilda.

The woman brought the broom, and, as she gave it, asked, "Who sent you to do all this?"

"n.o.body."

"What made you come, then? It's queer play for a child like you."

"Somebody must do it, you know," said Matilda; and she ran away.

But Sabrina's words recurred to her. It was queer play. But then, who would do it? And it was not for Mrs. Eldridge alone. She brushed away with a good heart, while the poor old woman was hovering over the chair on which her supper was set, munching bread and herring with a particularity of attention which shewed how good a good meal was to her. Matilda did not disturb her, and she said never a word to Matilda; till, just as the little girl had brought all the sweepings of the floor to the threshold, where they lay in a heap, and another stroke of the broom would have scattered them into the street, the s.p.a.ce outside the door was darkened by a figure, the sight of which nearly made the broom fly out of Matilda's hand. n.o.body but Mr. Richmond stood there.

The two faces looked mutual pleasure and surprise at each other.

"Mr. Richmond!"

"What _are_ you doing here, Tilly?"

"Mr. Richmond, can you step over this muss? I will have it away directly."

Mr. Richmond stepped in, looked at the figure by the stove, and then back at Matilda. The little girl finished her sweeping and came back, to receive a warm grasp of the hand from her minister; one of the things Matilda liked best to get.

"Is all this your work, Tilly," he whispered.

"Mr. Richmond, n.o.body has given her a cup of tea in a long while."

The minister stepped softly to the figure still bending over the broken herring; I think his blue eye had an unusual softness in it. The old woman pushed her chair back, and looked up at him.

"It's the minister agin," said she.

"Are you glad to see me?" said Mr. Richmond, taking a chair that Matilda had dusted for him. I am afraid she took off her ap.r.o.n to do it with, but the occasion was pressing. There was no distinct answer to the minister's question.

"You seem to have had some supper here," he remarked.