The House in Town

"It was handsome before it was made up – it isn't now. Dresses are not cut that way now; and the trimming is as old as the hills. I guess that has been made two or three years, that dress. And nobody wears a shawl now – unless it's a camel's hair. Nobody would, that knew any better."

"What is a camel's hair?" said Matilda.

"A peculiar sort of rough thick shawl," said Judy. "People wear them because they set off the rest of their dress; but country people don't know enough to wear them. Ask aunt Zara to get you a camel's hair shawl. I wish she would give me one, too."

Matilda wondered why Miss Judith's mother did not get her one, if they were so desirable; but she did not feel at home enough with the young lady to venture any such suggestion. She only did wish very much privately that Mrs. Laval would choose for herself a black satin cloak; but on that score too she did not feel that she could make any requests. Mrs. Laval knew what was fashionable, at any rate, as well as her niece; that was one comfort.

Thinking this, Matilda followed her two companions up the wide staircase. Another world of shops and buyers and sellers up there! What a very wonderful place New York must be. And Stewart's.

"Does everybody come here?" she whispered to Judy.

"Pretty much everybody," said that young lady. "They have to."

"Then they can't buy things anywhere else?"

"What do you mean?" said Judith looking at her.

"I mean, is this the only place where people can get things? are there any more stores beside this?"

Judith's eyes snapped in a way that Matilda resolved she would not provoke again.

"More stores?" she said. "New York is all stores, except the streets where people live."

"Does nobody live in the streets where the stores are?" Matilda could not help asking.

"No. Nobody but the people that live in the stores, you know; that's nobody."

Matilda's thoughts were getting rather confused than enlightened; however the party came now, passing by a great variety of counters and goods displayed, to a region where Matilda saw there was a small host of cloaks, hung upon frames or stuffed figures. Here Mrs. Laval sat down on a sofa and made Matilda sit down, and called for something that would suit the child's age and size. Velvet, and silk and cloth, and shaggy nondescript stuffs, were in turn brought forward; Matilda saw no satin. Mrs. Laval was hard to suit; and Matilda thought Judith was no help, for she constantly put in a word for the articles which Mrs. Laval disapproved. Matilda was not consulted at all, and indeed neither was Miss Judy. At last a cloak was chosen, not satin, nor even silk, nor even cloth; but of one of those same shaggy fabrics which looked coarse, Matilda thought. But she noticed that the price was not low, and that consoled her. The cloak was taken down to the carriage, and they left the store.

"Where now, aunt Zara?" said Judith. "We are pretty well lumbered up with packages."

"To get rid of some of them," said Mrs. Laval. "I am going to Fournissons's."

What that meant, Matilda could not guess. The drive was somewhat long; and then the carriage stopped before a plain-looking house in a very plain-looking street. Here they all got out again, and taking the various parcels which contained Matilda's dresses, they went in. They mounted to a common little sitting-room, where some litter was strewn about on the floor. But a personage met them there for whom Matilda very soon conceived a high respect; she knew so much. This was Mme. Fournissons; the mantua-maker who had the pleasure of receiving Mrs. Laval's orders. So she said; but Matilda thought the orders rather came from the other side. Mme. Fournissons decided promptly how everything ought to be made, and just what trimming would be proper in each case; and proceeded to take Matilda's measure with a thorough-bred air of knowing her business which impressed Matilda very much. Tapes unrolled themselves deftly, and pins went infallibly into place and never out of place; and Madame measured and fitted and talked all at once, with the smooth rapid working of a first-rate steam engine. New York mantua-making was very different from the same thing at Shadywalk! And here Matilda saw the wealth of her new wardrobe unrolled. There was a blue merino and a red cashmere and a brown rep, for daily wear; and there was a most beautiful crimson silk and a dark green one for other occasions. There was a blue crape also, with which Miss Judy evidently fell in love.

"It would not become you, Judy, with your black eyes," her aunt said. "Now Matilda is fair; it will suit her."

"Charmingly!" Mme. Fournissons had added. "Just the thing. There is a delicacy of skin which will set off the blue, and which the blue will set off. Miss Bartholomew should wear the colours of the dahlia – as her mother knows."

"Clear straw colour, for instance, and purple!" said Judith scornfully.

"Mrs. Bartholomew has not such bad taste," said Mme. Fournissons. "This is? – this young lady?" —

"My adopted daughter, madame," said Mrs. Laval.

"She will not dishonour your style, madam," rejoined the mantua-maker approvingly.

Judith pouted. She could do that well. But Matilda went down the stairs happy. Now she was sure her dress would be quite as handsome and quite as fashionable as Judy's; there would be no room for glances of depreciation, or such shrugs of disdain as had been visited upon the country people coming to Stewart's. All would be strictly correct in her attire, and according to the latest and best mode. The wind blew as hard as ever, and the dust swept in furious charges against everybody in the street by turns; but there were folds of silk and velvet, as well as sheets of plate glass now, between Matilda and it. When they reached home, Mrs. Laval called Matilda into her room.

"Here are your five dollars for December, my darling," she said. "Have you any boots beside those?"

"No, ma'am."

"You want another pair of boots; and then you will do very well until next month. Norton can take you to the shoemaker's to-morrow, – he likes to take you everywhere; tell him it must be Laddler's. And you will want to go and see your sisters, will you not?"

"O yes, ma'am."

"Where is it?"

Matilda named the place.

"316 Bolivar St.," repeated Mrs. Laval. "Bolivar St. Where is that? Bolivar Street is away over on the other side of the city, I think, towards what they used to call Chelsea. You could not possibly walk there. I will let the carriage take you. Now darling, get ready for dinner."

Feeling as if she were ten years older than she had been the day before, Matilda mounted the stairs to her room. Her room. This beautiful, comfortable, luxurious place! It was a little hard to recognize herself in it. And when all those dresses should come home —

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 buttons and tassels 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 God'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 God. 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 nobody 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 fashionable, and to escape being thought unfashionable; 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 fashionable? 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 fashionable; she was very glad to be as handsomely dressed as Judith; her heart was very much set on her silks and trimmings, 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 assurance 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.