The House in Town Part 24

Here there was a knock at the door, and Sam, the head waiter, handed her the bundle of her new cloak, in a nice pasteboard box. Matilda put that in the wardrobe drawer, and made her hair and dress neat; not without a dim notion, back somewhere in her heart, that she had a good deal of thinking to do. A feeling that she was somehow getting out of her reckoning. There was no time however now for anything before the bell rang for dinner.

Nor all the evening. Norton was eager with questions; and Judith was sharp with funny speeches, about Matilda's wonder and unusedness to everything. Matilda winced a little; however, Norton laughed it off, and the evening on the whole went pleasantly. He and she arranged schemes for to-morrow; and all the four got a little more acquainted with each other. But when Matilda went up to her room at night, she took out her Bible and opened it, resolving to find out what those things were she had to think of; she seemed to have switched off her old track and to have got a great way from Mr. Richmond and Shadywalk.

She did not like this feeling. What did it mean?

She tried to think, but she could not think. Folds of glossy blue silk hung before her eyes; her new odd little cloak, with its rich b.u.t.tons and ta.s.sels started up to her vision; Mme. Fournissons and her tape measure and her face and her words came putting themselves between her and the very words of the Bible. And this went on. What was she to do?

Matilda sat back from the table and tried to call herself to order.

_This_ was not the way to do. And then her mind flew off to the Menagerie, and the roars of those wild beasts seemed to go up and down in her ears. Yet underneath all these things, there was a secret consciousness of something not right; _was_ it there, or no? It was all a whirl of confusion. Matilda tried to recollect Mr. Richmond and some of his words.

"He said I was to go by that motto, 'Whatsoever ye do, in word or deed, do all'--Well, but I am not doing anything, am I, just now? What have I been doing to-day? I will take a piece of paper and put the things down! and then my thoughts will not slip away so."

Matilda got the piece of paper and the pencil; but she did not immediately find out what she was to put down.

"The Menagerie?--I did not go there of my own head; Norton took me.

Still, '_whatsoever_ ye do'--I was getting pleasure, that's all; it was nothing but pleasure. What has my motto to do with pleasure? Well, of course it would make it impossible for me to take wrong pleasure--I see that. I could not take pleasure that would be wrong in G.o.d's sight, nor that would make me do wrong to get it. Other pleasure, right pleasure, he likes me to have. Yes, and he gives it to me, really. I couldn't have it else. Then certainly my motto says that I must remember that, and thank Him first of all for everything I have that I like. Did I do so about the Menagerie? I don't think I thought about it at all; only I was very much obliged to Norton. I did not thank G.o.d. And yet it was such a very, very great pleasure! But I will now."

And so Matilda did. Before going any further in her inquiries, she kneeled down and gave thanks for the rare enjoyment of the morning. She rose up a little more sober-minded and able for the other work on hand.

"What next? Those little street sweepers. I did not have anything to do with them--I had no pennies in my pocket, and I could not wait. But I shall be seeing them every day; they are under foot everywhere, Norton says; how ought I to behave towards them? They are a great nuisance, Norton says; stopping one at every corner; and they ought not to be encouraged. If n.o.body gave them anything, of course they would not be encouraged; and they would not be there sweeping the crossings. But then, we should not have clean crossings. I wonder which is worst, having them swept or not having them swept? However, they will be on the streets, I suppose, those poor children, whatever _I_ do. Now what ought I to do? I can't give pennies to them all; and if not, how shall I manage?"

Matilda put her head down to think. And then came floating into her thoughts the words of her motto,--"Do all in the name of the Lord Jesus."

"What would He say?" questioned Matilda with herself. "But I know what he did say! 'Give to him that asketh thee.'--Must I? But how _can_ I, to all these children? I shall not have pennies. Well, of course! when I _haven't_ pennies I cannot give them. But I cannot buy candy much, then, can I! because I shall want all my odd cents. After all, they are working hard to get a living; how terribly hard it must be, to live so dirty and so cold!--and I have cake and ice cream and plenty of everything I like. I suppose I can do without candy. I know what Jesus would do too, if he was here; he would give them kind looks and kind words, as well as pay. But can I? What could I say to them? I wonder if Mrs. Laval would like me to speak to them? Anyhow, I _know_ Jesus would say kind words to them--because He would love them. If I loved them, I could speak, easy enough. And then--He would try to do them good, and make them good. I wonder if they go to Sunday school, any of them? But I don't go myself yet, here. I suppose I shall"--

Matilda's wits went off on a long chase here, about things that had nothing to do with her piece of paper. At last came back.

"Where was I? what next? The next thing was the shopping. I had nothing to do with that. I did not ask for anything; it was all chosen and done without me. But this was another pleasure; and I am to take my dresses, and wear them of course, according to my motto. How can I? 'Do all in His name?' How can I? Well, to be sure, I can do it in such a way as to please him. How would that be?"

There seemed to be a great deal of confusion in Matilda's thoughts at this point, and hard to disentangle; but through it all she presently felt something like little soft blows of a hammer at her heart, reminding her of a very eager wish for black satin, and disappointment at not having it; of a violent desire to be fas.h.i.+onable, and to escape being thought unfas.h.i.+onable; and of a secret delight in rivalling Judith Bartholomew. And though Matilda tried to reason these thoughts away and explain them down, those soft blows of the hammer kept on, just as fast as ever.

"Does the Lord like such feelings? Does _he_ care that his children should be fas.h.i.+onable? How are you going to dress to please him, if the object is to be as fine as Judith Bartholomew, or to escape her criticism, or to shew yourself a fine lady? Will that be pleasing him?"

The answer was swift to come; yet what was Matilda to do? All these things were at work in her already. And with them came now an ugly wicked wish, that religion did not require her to be unlike other people. But Matilda knew that was wicked, as soon as she felt it; and it humbled her. And what was she to do? Seeing the wrong of all these various feelings did not at all take them out of her heart. She _did_ want to be fas.h.i.+onable; she was very glad to be as handsomely dressed as Judith; her heart was very much set on her silks and tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs, in a way that conscience whispered was simply selfish and proud. Were these things going to change Matilda at once and make her a different child from the one that had been baptized in a black dress at Shadywalk, and only cared then for the "white robes" that are the spirit's adornings?

Matilda was determined that should not be. She prayed a great deal about it; and at last went to bed, comforting herself with the a.s.surance that the Lord would certainly help a child that trusted him, to be all that he had bidden her be.

The subject started itself anew the next morning; for there on her dressing-table lay her pocket book with the five dollars Mrs. Laval had given her last evening. There were two dollars also that were left from November's five dollars; that made seven, to go shopping for boots. "I should think I could do with that," Matilda thought to herself.

She asked Norton to go with her to Laddler's shoe store.

"Well," said Norton; "but we must go to the Park to-day."

"And Madame Fournissons wants to see you this afternoon," said Mrs.

Laval. "I think the Park must wait, Norton."

"But I have only to-day and to-morrow, mamma. School begins Monday."

"To-morrow will do for the Park," said Mrs. Laval. "And you will have other Sat.u.r.days, Norton."

Matilda went upstairs to get ready, thinking that she was beginning to find out what sort of "opportunities" were likely to be given her in her new home. She was going to have opportunity for self-conquest, for self-denial, harder than she had ever known hitherto; opportunity to follow the straight path where it was not always easy to see it, and where it could only be found by keeping the face steadily in the right direction. In the midst of these thoughts, however, she dressed herself with great glee; put her purse in her pocket; and set out with Norton, remembering that in this matter of buying her boots her motto must come in play.

As it was rather early in the morning, the shoe store of Mr. Laddler was nearly empty, and Matilda had immediate attention. Matilda told what she wanted; the shopman glanced an experienced eye over her little figure, from her hat to the ground; gave her a seat, and proceeded to fit her. The very first pair of boots "went on like a glove," the man said. And they were very handsome. But the price was seven dollars! It would take her whole stock in hand.

"Can't you give me a pair that will cost less?" Matilda asked, after a pause of inward dismay.

"Those are what you want," said the man. "They fit, to a T; you cannot better that fit."

"But you have some that don't cost so much?"

"They would not look so well," said the shopman. "We have boots not finished in the same style, for less money; but you want those. That's the article."

"Please let me see the others."

He brought some to shew. They were of less fine and beautifully dressed stuff, were more coa.r.s.ely made, and less elegant in their cut. Matilda saw all that, and hesitated. The man looked at her.

"There's a pair here," he said, turning back to his drawer, "that I can let you have for five dollars;--just as good as that first pair."

He produced them and tried one on. It seemed to be quite as he had said. Matilda could see no difference.

"That will do," said he, "if you like them. They are exactly as well made as that first pair; and of the same leather."

"Then why are they only five dollars," Matilda asked, "while the others are seven?"

"Fas.h.i.+on," said the man. "Nothing else. You see, those are wide at the toe; that was the style worn last winter; these first, you see, are very narrow at the toe. There is no demand for _these_ now; so I can let you have them low. If you like these, I will let you have them for four and a half. Seven dollar boots."

Matilda felt a pang of uncertainty. That would save her two and a half dollars of her seven, and she would have pennies for street girls and change for other objects. But Judy would look at those square toes, and think that Matilda was from the country and did not know, as she said, what was what. The thought of Judy's eyes and smile was not to be borne.

"I will take the others," she said hastily to the shopman--"the first you tried on."

"I thought so," said the man. "Those are what you want."

Matilda paid, and Norton ordered them sent home, and the two left the shop.

"If that had been a good shoemaker," said Norton, "he would have fitted you in half the time. We have been half an hour there."

"O that is my fault, Norton," said Matilda; "because I could not decide which fas.h.i.+on to have."

"Sure you have got the right one now?" said Norton.

"I got the newest."

"That's the right one," said Norton, as if the question was settled.

But it was not settled, in Matilda's mind; and all the way home she was trying the boots over again. Had she done right? It was on her lips to say she wished there were no such thing as fas.h.i.+on, but conscience checked her; she felt it was very delightful to be _in the fas.h.i.+on_.

Was that wrong? How could it be wrong? But she had paid for being in the fas.h.i.+on. Had she paid too much? And was she any the better for having round toes to her boots, that she should be so delighted about it? She wanted to be as well dressed as Judy. She wanted that Judy should not be able to laugh at her for a country girl. She could not help feeling that, she thought; but then, she had paid for it. Was this going to be the way always?

Matilda was in such a confusion of thoughts that she did not know what she was pa.s.sing in the street. Only, she did know when there were little street-sweepers at the crossings, and she tried to slip by without seeming to see them, and to put Norton between them and herself. Not a penny had she for one of them. And she would not have, until the month came round again. Fas.h.i.+on certainly cost. But she had the narrow-toed boots; she was glad of that.

"What ails you?" said Norton at last. "Are you cold?"