The House in Town

"Why not, aunt Candy?" Matilda asked.

"Wait and see if they do. Will they like it, do you think, to see that you do not belong to them any more and are part and parcel of quite another family? Will they like it, that your business will be to forget them now? See if they like it!"

"Why I shall not forget them at all!" cried Matilda; "how could I? and what makes you say so?"

"You are beginning by forgetting your mother," said Mrs. Candy, with a significant glance at the silver-grey pelisse.

"Yes," said Clarissa, "I noticed the minute she came in. How could Mrs. Laval do so!"

"What?" said Matilda. "That isn't true at all, aunt Candy."

"I see the signs," said Mrs. Candy. "There is no need to tell me what they mean. In this country it is considered a mark of respect and a sign that we do not forget our friends, to wear a dress of remembrance."

"It reminds us of them, too," said Clarissa. "And we like to be reminded of those we love."

"I do not want anything to remind me of her," said Matilda; and the little set of her head at the moment spoke volumes. "And besides, aunt Candy and Clarissa, I did not wear mourning when I was here, except only when I went to church."

"That shewed the respect," said Mrs. Candy. "You can see easily what Mrs. Laval means, by her dressing you out in that style. Have you got a black dress under your coat?"

"Let us see what you have got," said Clarissa.

As Matilda did not move, Mrs. Candy rose and went to her and lifted up the folds of her pelisse so as to show the brown merino.

"I thought so," she remarked, as she went back to her seat.

"Mrs. Laval ought to be ashamed!" said her daughter.

Matilda had got by this time about as much as she could bear. She rose up from her uneasy chair opposite Mrs. Candy.

"O, are you going?" said that lady. "You do not care to stay long with us."

"Not to-day," said little Matilda, with more dignity than she knew, and with an air of the head and shoulders that very much irritated Mrs. Candy.

"I'd cure you of that," she said, "if I had you. I thought I had cured you. You would not dare hold your head like that, if you were living with me."

Now Matilda had not the least knowledge that her head was held differently from usual. She said good bye.

"Are you not going to kiss me?" said her aunt. "You are forgetting fast."

It cost an effort, but Matilda offered her cheek to Mrs. Candy and to Clarissa, and left them. She ran down the stairs and out of the house. At the little gate she stood still.

What did it all mean? Forgetting her mother? Had she done her memory an injury, by putting on her brown frock and her grey pelisse? Was there any truth in all this flood of disagreeable words, which seemed to have flowed over and half drowned her. Ought her dress to be black? It had not been when she lived with her aunt, except on particular days and out of doors, as she had said. Was there any truth in all these charges? Matilda's heart had suddenly lost all its gayety, and the struggle in her thoughts was growing more and more unendurable every moment. A confusion of doubts, questions, suspicions which she could not at once see clearly enough to cast off, and sorrow, raged and fought in her mind with indignant rejection and disbelief of them. What should she do? How could she tell what was right? Mr. Richmond! She would go straight to him.

And so she did, hurrying along Butternut street like a little vessel in a gale; and she was just that, only the gale was in her own mind. It drove her on, and she rushed into the parsonage, excited by her own quick movements as well as by her thoughts. Miss Redwood was busy in the kitchen.

"What's the matter?" she exclaimed, for Matilda had gone in that way.

"I want to see Mr. Richmond."

"Well, he's in there. La! child, we keep open doors at the parsonage; there ain't no need that you should break 'em in by running against 'em. Take it easy, whatever there is to take. The minister's in his study. But his dinner'll be ready in a quarter of an hour, tell him."

Matilda went more quietly and knocked at the study door. She heard "Come in."

"Mr. Richmond, are you busy?" she asked, standing still inside of the study door. "Shall I disturb you?" She was quiet enough now. But the tears were shining in Matilda's eyes, and the eyes themselves were eager.

"Come here," said Mr. Richmond holding out his hand; "I am not too busy, and your disturbing me is very welcome. How do you do?"

Matilda's answer was to clasp Mr. Richmond's hand and cover her face.

"What is the matter?" he asked softly, though a little startled. "Nothing that we cannot set right, Tilly?"

He drew his arm protectingly round her, and Matilda presently looked up. "O Mr. Richmond," she said, "I don't know if anything is wrong; but I want to know."

"Well, we can find out. What is the question?"

"Mr. Richmond, the question is, Ought I to wear black things for mamma?"

The minister was much surprised.

"What put this in your head, Tilly?"

"Mrs. Laval gave me some new dresses yesterday; these, you see, Mr. Richmond; the frock is dark brown and the coat is grey. Ought they to be black?"

"Why should they be black?"

"I don't know, sir. People do wear black things when they have lost friends."

"What for do they so?"

"I don't know, Mr. Richmond; but people say it shews respect – and that I do not shew" —

"Let us look at it quietly," said her friend. "How does it shew respect to a lost friend, to put on a peculiar dress?"

"I don't know, sir; because it's the custom, I suppose. But I am not in black. Ought I to be?"

"Wait; we will come to it. Black dresses are supposed to be a sign of grief, are they not?"

"I don't know, Mr. Richmond; they said, of respect, and to put one in mind."

"The grief that wants putting in mind, is not a grief that pays much real respect, I should think. Do not you think so? that's one thing."

Matilda looked at him, with eyes intent and pitifully full of tears, just ready to run over, but eagerly watching his lips.

"Then as to respect, black dresses must shew respect, if any way, by saying to the world that we remember and are sorry. Now the fact is, Matilda, they do not say that at all. They are worn quite as much by people who do not remember, and who are not sorry. They tell nothing about the truth, except that some of those who wear them like to be in the fashion and some are afraid of what the world will say.

"But there is another question. When our friends have left us and are happy with the Lord Jesus, as all his children are, is it a mark of respect to their memory, that we should cover our faces with crape, and wear gloomy drapery, and shut up our shutters to keep the sunlight out of our rooms? Have we any right to stop the sunlight anywhere? Wouldn't it be better honour to our Christian friends who have gone, to be glad for them, and speak as if we were; and let it be seen that all the sorrow we have is on our own account, and we do not mean to indulge that selfishly? We do not sorrow as those that have no hope; for we believe that them which sleep in Jesus will God bring with him. There will be a glorious meeting again, by and by, when Jesus comes; then we and our dear ones who have loved him will be together again, and all of us with the Lord."

"Then people ought not to wear black for mourning?" said Matilda with a brightened but undecided face.