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CHAPTER II

Supper was just served when they got downstairs. It was another variety of this wonderful evening. The dining-room long table was so beautiful with lights, fruits, greens, and confections, with setting of plate and glass, that to Matilda it was almost as much of a sight as the Christmas tree had been. But the others were accustomed to this sort of thing, and fell to tasting, with very little rapture about the seeing. What a buzz the room was in, to be sure! Tongues were fairly unloosed over oysters and sandwiches; and all the glory of the Christmas tree was to talk about, with comparisons of presents, plans, and prospects. Matilda looked on, half bewildered, but so very happy that it hardly occurred to her to remember that she might like something to eat too. Everybody was attending upon the wants of the guests, though certainly Matilda did notice that Judy had a plateful of something, and was eating as busily as she was talking. Doing neither, for she knew nobody to talk to, Matilda waited, and thought of her watch, in a trance of rapture.

"Why, my dear, is nobody attending to you?" she heard the voice of Mrs. Lloyd say at last. "Have you had nothing all this while?"

"No, ma'am – they are all so busy."

But David came up at the minute, and Matilda had no longer anything to complain of. He served her very kindly, and Matilda found that she was very hungry. She got a chance, however, to thank David for her work-box.

"I am sure you deserve it," he said. "What did Judy give you?"

He looked very little pleased, Matilda thought, when she told him. But he only helped her carefully to everything she would have, and said no more about it.

A third wonder to Matilda that evening was the style and amount of eating that went on. The ices were in beautiful fruit forms; and she thought when she had demolished one of them she had done enough, especially as caramel, and candied fruits, and other confections were awaiting her attention. But the circulation of these little ices went on at a rate that proved Matilda's moderation to be shared by few, and she heard one little lady say to another, herself with a plateful, "Is that your third or your fourth?" Slowly munching candied grapes, Matilda looked on and marvelled. Presently Norton came to see if she wanted anything, and then Esther joined them, and the talk was of the witch again.

"We are going to see her now," said Norton. "Just as soon as we have done with the table."

"What's it all for?" inquired Esther.

"I don't know," said Norton, shaking his head. "Some crotchet of somebody's. I don't know anything about it. Only everybody is invited to go and see the witch; and the witch's den is in the little reception room on the other side of the hall; and we must go in one by one; and we must answer every question we are asked, or we shall get no good of our interview. So much I am informed of."

"What good shall we get if we do answer all the questions?" Esther asked.

"If I was a wizard, maybe I could tell you, Esther. You should ask David. There used to be witches and wizards, too, among his people."

"They were forbidden," said David gravely.

"But they were there, all the same," said Norton.

"Not all the same," said David; "for it was death by the law; and no good ever came of them, and nobody good ever went to them."

"O David," said Matilda timidly, but the occasion was too tempting to be lost, – "do you know what they did? Did they only play tricks? or was there anything real about it?"

Perhaps David took a different view of the occasion; for after one earnest look into Matilda's face, as if he would answer her, he turned it off with lightly saying that the witches were real, for Saul had them all put to death that he could find; and then saying that he would go and look after this particular witch. And presently he came back and proclaimed that she was ready to receive visitors.

"Who are to go, Davie? Who are to go to see her?" were the inquiries huddled one upon another.

"Everybody," said David. "One at a time."

"What are we to do? What are we to say?"

"Answer questions."

"The witch's questions?"

"Certainly."

"Why must we answer her questions? and what will she ask us about?"

"Really you must judge for yourselves, about the one thing; and find out for yourselves, about the other. I cannot tell you."

"Will you answer her questions?"

"Perhaps."

"O come along!" was the cry then; "you can't get anything out of him. Who will go first?"

Caramel and ices had done their utmost, and now the witch became the absorbing interest. And as those who came back from the witch s den, it was found, would tell nothing of what had transpired there, the interest was kept up at white heat. First one went, and then another. Of course the young people of the household were the last.

The witch's den, when Norton entered it, was a place he did not recognize; though in reality it was manufactured out of the little corner reception room. Dark drapery enclosed and mystified the space into which he was admitted; the light came from he could not see where, and was dim enough too; and the witch was not to be seen. Nor, distinctly, anything else. Norton took his stand as he had been directed in front of a dark curtain and waited. The first question demanded his name, and when that had been answered the voice went on, —

"What do you want of the witch?"

"That depends on what she can do," said Norton.

"Power unlimited."

"Then I wish she would cast a spell upon Mrs. Lloyd."

"To what effect?"

"That she would let me have the little corner attic room for a greenhouse."

"How would you warm it?"

"It wouldn't want much more warming than it has now. A gas stove would do, I think."

"You may go. You shall hear from me in the course of the week."

Norton went out in high glee. "She's a brick, that witch!" he exclaimed. "Go along, Judy – and make haste; people are taking leave now. I don't know whose the voice is, though," he went on; "I couldn't make it out. I guess" – But Norton stopped; and Judy went in.

"Are you in want of anything, Judy Bartholomew?" the unseen witch asked.

"I haven't got all I want," said Judy; "if you mean that."

"State what is needed."

"There are a great many things," said Judy unblushingly; "but the two things I wish for most particularly are – to give a ball, for one; and to have a diamond ring, for the other."

"Short of these two things, all your wishes are satisfied then?"

"No," said Judy hesitatingly, – "I didn't say that. I want lots of things besides; but those two most."

"You may go. The witch always wants time. Have you any debts to pay? of money? of any other sort?"

"No indeed," said Judy decidedly.

"Is there anybody to whom you would like to do a kindness?"

"Not that I know of."

"You may go. Your wants shall be considered."

Judy came out triumphant. She would have had her brother go next, but he insisted that Matilda should precede him. So Matilda went into the darkened, mysterious boudoir of the receptions.

"Who is this?" said the voice.

And a gentle answer came; not like Judy's proclaiming of herself, yet clear and frank too.

"Matilda Laval, what would you like of all things, if you could have it?"

Matilda hesitated. "There are so many things" – she began, – "it isn't very easy" —

"So many things you would like?"

"Yes, ma'am. Not for myself," she added, in a kind of horror at being supposed to entertain such wishes under the flood of good things that had come upon her that evening.

"Well, go on. It is for yourself in one way. Say what, of all you can think of, would give you most pleasure."

Matilda's hands came together with a certain pang of hope, as she answered.

"If I could make somebody comfortable that I know of; – a poor, good girl, who is not comfortable at all."

"One of your sisters?"

"O no, ma'am; no relation."

"What is the matter with her, and how could you make her comfortable?"

"She is a very poor girl," said Matilda, so eager that she did not know what to bring out first; – "she lives in a cellar room with a wet mud floor, and no bed to sleep on that is like a bed; of course she cannot be very clean, nor have any comfort at all; and I should like to make them comfortable."

"Who is she?"

"A very poor girl, that goes to Sunday school. But she is very good."

"Does she live there alone?"

"O there are three of them; her mother and little brother."

"Then why does not the mother earn money and live better?"

"She works for it; she sews; but the people give her almost nothing for her work; and Sarah sweeps a crossing."

"How did you come to know all this?"

"I saw Sarah in Sunday school; and I heard about her from my teacher, and he shewed me the place where she lives. He knows she is good."

"And what do you want to do for her?"

"I want to get her out of that place, and into a decent room, and give her a comfortable bed."

"What is her name?"

"Sarah Staples."

"How long would she keep decent, do you think?"

"Always," said Matilda confidently. "I am sure she would be just as nice as she possibly could. Where she is, she has no chance."

"Well, go; the witch will look into it."

Matilda went out, hardly knowing what to think, or whether she might hope anything from this very doubtful interview. Just as she reached the door, she was called back.

"Have you no wishes for yourself, little girl?"

"No, ma'am; thank you."

"Is there nothing in the world you would like?"

"I suppose, a great many things," said Matilda; "but I have got so many now, I am afraid to wish."

"Why?"

"I don't think I ought to wish for anything more, for myself."

"You are the first person I ever saw, young or old, who put an 'ought' before his wishes. Most people put it after them. Well, as a reward, tell the one more thing, for yourself, that you would wish for if you could have it."

Matilda thought, and hesitated. She did not at all like to tell her thought. At last the witch urged her to speak out and be quick.

"If I were to choose – and wish for anything more," Matilda said slowly, – "which I don't; but if I did wish for anything more, it would be for a beautiful picture I have seen."

"Aha!" said the witch. "Where did you see it?"

"At Goupil's."

"And what picture was it?"

"It was the picture of the woman searching for the lost piece of money."

"Well. You are an odd child. You may go; and if there is anybody else to come, let them make haste. I am as tired as if I were not a witch."

A minute after David entered the den.

"I know who you are," said the witch. "Speak your heart's desire; and in one word, if you can."

"In one word, Hebrew."

"What of Hebrew?"

"To learn it."

"Learning is a thing I cannot do for you."

"No, but the means."

"What means?"

"Permission, time, books, and a teacher."

"You are another odd one. Is that your dearest heart's wish, David Bartholomew?"

"I think it is the greatest I have, at present."

"Well. Leave it with me and go."

"Hallo, David!" exclaimed Norton as he came out into the hall; "the people are all gone; the last one just had the door shut behind him."

"It's time," said David.

"Takes more than a party to shake you out of your gravity," said Norton. "Time? why yes, it's past twelve."

"Sunday!" exclaimed Matilda.

The other three, they were together in the hall, all burst out laughing.

"It's Sunday; and Christmas is over, and the Christmas tree," said Norton. "But the fruits keep. Extraordinary tree! Well, Pink; we have got to go and sleep now. Do you want to take another look at the tree?"

They all went into the drawing-room which had been the scene of so much festivity. The tree stood there yet in its tub, with ribbands and gilt work hanging to it; but the lights were burnt out, and the splendour was gone, and its riches were scattered. It was a thing of the past already.

"The fruits will keep," Norton repeated. "Did you find out who the witch was, David?"

"I thought I knew."

"I knew I knew," said Norton; "but she had somebody else to speak for her. What a jolly witch! We shall hear from her some of these days. Well, good night."

Kisses and thanks and good nights had to be exchanged with the older members of the family; and Sunday was well begun when at last Matilda shut her door behind her. She had to take one look at her watch; it was no doubt a little beauty; and to Matilda's vision it was a very fruit and embodiment of fairyland. Beyond even her wildest dreams of what was possible from a Christmas tree. Her own watch! She could scarcely believe it, even with the watch lying securely in her hand. And with the delicate minute hand pointing but fifteen minutes off from one o' clock, she still stood gazing and rapt. Then as the hand went on to fourteen minutes, and thirteen, Matilda started and laid it down. To have her own watch telling her it was time to go to bed! But she must just look at Mrs. Bartholomew's present.

Hurriedly she untied the box and pulled off the silver paper. And within the silver paper inside the box lay a dainty gold bracelet.

It was extremely pretty, and had cost a great deal, no doubt. It was very kind of Judy's mother to give it. Nevertheless round the bracelet crept a sort of cobweb of thoughts and feelings which were not all of pleasure. It was too late to examine into them now. Matilda wrapped up the trinket again and put it away, and went to bed; as happy as it seemed possible for her to be.

Sunday morning was high and bright, it must be confessed, when she awoke. Bells were ringing, the eight o' clock bells she thought they must be; but indeed they were the bells for Sunday school. Matilda did not guess that, and so was not in an immediate hurry to get out of bed and end the luxurious rest which the excitements and late hours of the day before had made so welcome and so long. She lay still, shut her eyes, and opened them upon the morning brightness, with a thrilling and bounding rapture of recollection that there was a little gold watch in her drawer which owned her for its mistress and would be her inseparable friend and servant – and adornment – thenceforward. Matilda lay still for very happiness. Turning her head a little towards the window the next time she opened her eyes, it seemed to her that she saw a picture standing there against the wall. Matilda shut her eyes and told herself that she was not dreaming and had no business to see visions in broad daylight. "I have been thinking so much about that picture I suppose, and talking about it to the witch, that is the reason I thought I saw it. But what did I see, that looked like a picture?" She opened her eyes now and raised herself on her elbow to look, for this was curious. More curious still! there, against the wall, in plain view, in the broad light, stood the beautiful engraving that had so captivated her.

"It's there!" was Matilda's thought. "The very thing! But what is it there for?"

A half-formed suspicion made her jump out of bed very spryly and run to the picture. There was a little ticket stuck in between the glass and the frame.

"For Matilda Laval– with Mrs. Lloyd's thanks and approbation."

Matilda looked, rushed back into bed, and arranged herself so that she could comfortably see the picture, while she thought about it.

"Mrs. Lloyd's thanks" – thanks for what? She must know, she must know, about the shawl. Yes, she must; I guess mamma told her. And it is mine! it is mine! There she is, that beautiful thing, the woman hunting for her lost money; the odd little lamp, and all. It is mine to keep. Certainly I ought not to wish for another thing for a whole year to come; I have got so much. This and my watch. O delightful! – I ought to be good! How lovely the light from that little old lamp is. And that is the way Jesus looks for us – for people who are lost; lost in the dark. So he looked for me, and found me. And there are such a great many more lost, that are not found yet. Lost in the dark! – And if He cares for them so, he must wish his servants to care too, and to look for them, and save all they can. Then that woman with her pretty lamp just shews me what I ought to do and how I ought to feel. —

Musing on in this way, very happy, leaning on her elbow to look at the picture, too warm in the soft air of her room to be disturbed by the necessity of getting dressed, Matilda noticed at last that the bells had stopped ringing. It was eight o' clock past, she thought, and time to get up; but she would look at her watch to see how eight o' clock looked on its pretty white face. Lo, it was nine! Sunday schools already beginning their services, while she stood there in her night-gown; dressing and breakfast yet to be gone through. But the afternoon was the time for school in the place where Matilda went; so all was not lost.

And so ended the doings of that Christmas night.

CHAPTER III

The experience of the morning certainly was rather scattering in its tendency, as far as any sober thought or work was concerned. The young people were brimful of life and fun and excitement; and it was not possible for Matilda to escape the infection. Nevertheless after lunch she had firmness enough left to put on her coat and hat and trudge off to Sunday school by herself. Norton said he had not "slept out," and would not go. Matilda went, with her little watch safe in her breast.

Getting out into the cold air and setting her feet upon the snowy streets, had somewhat the effect of breaking a spell. For a while, that seemed now a very long while, Matilda had been in a whirl of expectation and pleasure and in a kind of dream of enchantment; nothing but soft luxury and visions of delight and one thing after another to make the child think she had got into very fairyland. But the streets outside were not fairyland; and the sharp air pinched her cheek with a grip which was not tender or flattering at all. The sense began to come back to Matilda that everybody was not having such rose-coloured dreams as she, nor living in summer-heated rooms. Nay, she saw children that were ill dressed, on their way like her; some who were insufficiently dressed; a multitude who were not nicely dressed; the contrast was very unpleasant, and a certain feeling of uneasiness and of responsibility and of desire to make other people comfortable crept over her anew. Then she remembered that she could not reach many, she could not do much; and she came into school and took her seat at last with a concentrated desire to do at least something effectual towards rescuing Sarah Staples from her miserable circumstances. After the lesson was done and the scholars were dismissed, Matilda asked Mr. Wharncliffe if she could speak to him?

"Is it a minute's work? or several minutes?" he inquired.

"I don't know, sir; I think, several minutes."

"Then wait a minute, and we will walk home together."

Matilda liked that, and presently in the clear late light of the waning winter afternoon, she and her teacher sallied forth into the street hand in hand.

"Now what is it?" he asked.

"About Sarah, Mr. Wharncliffe."

"Well? What about her?"

"I have been thinking a great deal, Mr. Wharncliffe, how to manage it; because I had not a great deal of money myself, and I did not know whether I could get help or no; but now I think I shall have some help; and I wanted to consult you to know what I had best do."

"What do you want to do?"

"First, I want to get her out of that dreadful place into a comfortable room somewhere."

"Suppose you do it, how is she going to stay in it?"

"What do you mean, sir?"

"The rent of such a room as you speak of would be, say seventy-five cents or a dollar a week. How are Sarah and her mother to pay that?"

"O I should have to pay it for them. I could do that, I think."

"For how long?"

Matilda looked at her teacher and did not immediately answer. She had not looked ahead so far as that.

"It is necessary to take all things into consideration," he said, answering her look. "You would not wish to put Sarah and her mother into a place of comfort for a little while, merely to let them fall out of it again?"

"O no, sir!"

"How are they to be maintained in it?"

Matilda pondered.

"I could take care of the rent, I think, I mean we could, for a while; for a year, perhaps; by that time couldn't they pay it, don't you think?"

"How?"

"By their work; by their earnings."

"But now, and for a long time past, their work has not enabled them to pay for anything better than they have got."

"Couldn't they do something better, Mr. Wharncliffe? something else? that would give them more money?"

"What work could you help them to, that would pay better?"

"I don't know, sir," said Matilda, looking up wistfully in her teacher's face. "I don't know anything about such things. Can you tell me? What work is there that they could get. What the other poor people do?"

"There are other things," said Mr. Wharncliffe thoughtfully. "There are better and better paying sorts of sewing; what Mrs. Staples does is very coarse, and she gets very little for it. But machine work now-a-days puts hand work at a disadvantage."

"What is machine work, sir?"

"Work done on a sewing machine. With a machine a woman can do I suppose, ten times as much in a day, and with more ease to herself."

"Well, wouldn't Mrs. Staples work on a machine?"

"I do not know. I think she used to take in washing once. She could do that again, if she had a better room and conveniences."

"And does that pay better?"

"I believe so. Indeed I am sure."

"Then she might do washing," said Matilda; "and Sarah might sew on a machine, Mr. Wharncliffe."

"She has not got one, you know."

"If we could get her one? Wouldn't that be nice, Mr. Wharncliffe?"

"My dear child, a good sewing machine costs a good deal of money."

"But if we could, Mr. Wharncliffe? I said if."

"Nothing could be better. Perhaps, by and by, it might be managed. In the mean time, Sarah might learn, and possibly get work; or get a machine and pay for it gradually by doing work for the makers. Such arrangements are made."

"How much does a sewing machine cost?"

"From forty five to sixty dollars."

"Forty five," repeated Matilda gravely. "But, Mr. Wharncliffe, in the first place the thing to do is to get them out of that place into a new room. Might we not do that? and don't you think the rest can be managed, somehow?"

"If we do that, the rest must be managed, if possible. It is always greater kindness and a far greater benefit, Matilda, to help poor people to take care of themselves, than to save them that care."

"Why, sir?"

"People are better and happier and stronger, working for their living and earning it, and keeping the sense of independence, than they are when living on the money of other people and losing their own self-respect. That is very ruinous to character. Avoid it always, in all your efforts to help people."

"Yes, I see," said Matilda thoughtfully. "But, Mr. Wharncliffe, Sarah and her mother cannot do anything to get in a better way while they live in that cellar. They want some help just at first. Don't they?"

"Certainly; and I think we have struck the right line of action to pursue for them. Help to put them in the way of being comfortably independent, is just what they want."

"Then the first thing is a lodging," said Matilda, with a relieved and brightening face. "How can we find one, Mr. Wharncliffe? I don't want them to know about it till we get it all settled and ready for them to move into."

"Ready for them?" said Mr. Wharncliffe inquiringly.

"Yes, sir; you know they have nothing to put into a nice room now, if they had one."

"Aren't you laying plans beyond your means?"

"Beyond mine; but I shall have some help. I don't know exactly how much, but some."

"Well, you will let me help too if necessary," said the gentleman. "And I will look out for a lodging."

"O thank you! Will you, sir?"

"To be sure. That is one way I am going to help."

"And when you have found one, you will let me know?"

"Whom else? Certainly, I will. I shall take no step without your direction."

"O thank you, sir!" said Matilda again.

They had been walking up the Avenue during this talk, to have uninterrupted time for it; now they had turned about to come home. Clear and bright and cold the sun was leaving the streets and lingering about the house roofs and chimneys; and the steeples of churches were shining marks of light on one side, on the other dark spires against the western sky. Mr. Wharncliffe and Matilda quickened their steps, which the frosty air made it pleasant to do. She supposed that the subject of their conversation was ended for the present, and so was somewhat surprised to hear the next question from her companion. It came out after some little pause.

"Matilda what has put this in your head?"

"This we have been talking of? Why I wanted to make Sarah comfortable. I could not bear to have her in that dreadful place. Mr. Wharncliffe, don't you think it is dreadful?"

"I do think it is dreadful; and your feeling very natural. Then you want to go to this expense and trouble for the comfort of knowing that she is comfortable?"

"I think so," said Matilda, somewhat puzzled. "I could not bear to think of her there."

"All perfectly right, Matilda," said her friend smiling. "I only want, while you are taking care of Sarah, to take care of you."

"How, sir?"

"There are so many ways in which good things may be done; and I wish you to take the best."

"What ways do you mean, sir? I do not understand."

"There is one way of doing kind things, merely or chiefly to save one's self from the uncomfortable feeling that the sight of misery gives. Kind people of that sort are benevolent in spots, just when they see or hear of something that touches them, and never at any other time. Others do kind things because they like to have a name for generosity, and giving money costs them nothing."

Matilda looked inquiringly up in Mr. Wharncliffe's face. "It made me very uncomfortable to see Sarah in that place," she said; "and to think of her in it."

"A third sort of kindness," Mr. Wharncliffe went on smiling, "is done because people love the Lord Jesus, and so love all whom he loves, and like to do the work he wants done."

"But it makes them feel badly to see people suffering?" said Matilda.

"Undoubtedly. They are the tenderest of all. But they will do as much for people they never saw, as for those at hand; and their spring of kindness never dries up. It is a perpetual flow. When they do not see objects on which to spend it, they seek them out."

Matilda pondered matters a little. Then she lifted a very honest face towards her companion.

"Which reason did you think made me want to do this for Sarah, sir?"

"I wanted you to think about it."

"Don't you think, Mr. Wharncliffe, it is very difficult to find out really why one does things?"

"Very difficult," said Mr. Wharncliffe with a comical drawing of his lips; "but very useful."

"I do not think," began Matilda again, very gravely, "I do not think my wanting to do this for Sarah was just to make myself feel comfortable."

"I do not think it, my child; but it is no harm to have your attention directed to the question. In all such matters, keep your action pure; let every thing be done for Christ, and then it will be all right. For instance, Matilda, when the real motive is self, or when there is no higher at work, one is easily tempted to do too much in a given case; to indulge one's self with great effects and astonishing liberality; when, if it were simply for Christ, one would be moderate and simple and prudent, and keep a due proportion in things."

"Yes," said Matilda looking puzzled, – "I understand. You will help me keep a 'proper proportion' in what I do for Sarah Staples, Mr. Wharncliffe?"

"How much are you thinking of doing?"

"I want to get her into a comfortable room," said Matilda. "That is first. Then – they have no furniture, Mr. Wharncliffe?"

"You want to get them some?"

"Would that be too much? a little? common things, of course, but what they cannot be comfortable without."

"How much money do you propose to spend on Sarah at this time?"

"I do not know. I know about how much I have, but I can't tell yet how much help I shall get. I want to do what ought to be done."

The last words were said with such an accent of earnest determination, that Mr. Wharncliffe again had almost smiled at his scholar; but he did not. He went on quite gravely: —

"A room and some necessary furniture, I should think, could be managed."

"Then we want to get them into a way of earning more."

"Yes. I will see about that. And about the room. And I can get what you want in furniture, at a second hand place, where the articles will cost very little."

"That's good," said Matilda. "Well, Mr. Wharncliffe, all that will not be too much?"

"I think not."

Matilda hesitated, and then added doubtfully, "Don't you think they want clean dresses?"

Mr. Wharncliffe smiled now.

"Where shall we stop?" said he.

"But they are very – uncomfortable," said Matilda, after waiting to choose a word. Her teacher thought for a minute of Sarah's well-worn, faded, lank, best dress, and how little evidently there was under it to keep the child warm, and his brow grew very sober indeed, and his blue eye misty.

"I'll not check you, Matilda," he said, "unless I see you going to some great extravagance. Go on, and I'll help, and we'll try to make one bad spot at least a little better. Good-bye!"

With a smile and a nod he parted from her at her own door, and Matilda ran up the steps and ran in with a whole little gale of pleasure freshening through her heart.

There was a gale of another sort blowing through the house that evening, and making the household lively. Pleasure was not wanting to it, though it was pleasure of another sort and largely mixed with excitement. The three other young ones were full of plans for the holiday week, reminiscences of the last evening, comparison and discussion of presents, and of people. Matilda in the midst of them listened and was amused, and thought of her gold watch and of Sarah with great secret throbs of delight in her heart.

"So you were the witch, grandmother," said Norton. "I knew it. I was sure of it. What did you do it for?"