The House in Town

"Do they try you?"

"Well, no; they like me pretty well at St. Giles'."

"And they don't like David?"

"They let him alone," said Norton. "No, they don't like him much. He keeps himself to himself too much for their liking. They would forget he is a Jew, if he would forget it; but he never does."

Matilda's thoughts had got into a new channel and ran along fast, till Norton brought them back.

"So we have got to look out for Christmas, Pink, as I told you. It's only just three weeks from to-morrow."

"What then, Norton? What do you do?"

"Everything we can think of," said Norton; "and to begin, everybody in the house gives something to every other body. That makes confusion, I should think!"

"Do you give things to your mother? and to Mrs. Lloyd?"

"To every one of 'em," said Norton; "and it's a job. I shall begin next week to get ready; and so must you."

Matilda had it on her tongue to say that she had no money and therefore nothing to get ready; but she remembered in time that if she said that or anything like it, Norton would report and ask for a supply for her. So she held her tongue. But how delightful it must be to get presents for everybody! Not for Mrs. Lloyd, exactly; Matilda had no special longings to bestow any tokens upon her; or Mrs. Bartholomew; but Maria, and Anne, and Letitia! And Norton himself. How she would like to give him something! And if she could, what in the world would it be? On this question Matilda's fancy fairly went off and lost itself, and Norton got no more talk from her till they reached home.

She mused about it again when she was alone in the carriage that afternoon driving to Mme. Fournisson's. As she had not the money, she thought she might as well have the comfort of fancying she had it and thinking what she would do with it; and so she puzzled in delightful mazes of dreamland, thinking what she would get for Norton if she had the power. It was so difficult a point to decide that the speculation gave her a great deal to do. Norton was pretty well supplied with things a boy might wish for; he did not want any of the class of presents Matilda had carried to Maria. But Norton was very fond of pretty things. Matilda knew that; yet her experience of delicate matters of art was too limited, and her knowledge of the resources of New York stores too unformed, to give her fancy much scope. She had a vague idea that there were pretty things that he might like, if only she knew where they were to be found. In the mean time, it was but the other day, she had heard him complaining that the guard of his watch was broken. Matilda knew how to make a very pretty, strong sort of watch guard; if she only had some strong brown silk to weave it of. That was easy to get, and would not cost much; if she had but a few shillings. Those round toed boots! It darted into her mind, how the two dollars and a half she had paid for those round toes, would have bought the silk for a watch guard and left a great deal to spare. There was a little sharp regret just here. It would have been such pleasure! And she would not have been quite empty handed in the great Christmas festival. But the round toes? Could she have done without them?

The question was not settled when she got to the dressmaker's; and for a good while there Matilda could think of nothing but her new dresses and the fashion and style which belonged to them. All that while the dressmaker, not Mme. Fournissons by any means, but one of her women, was trying on the bodies of these dresses, measuring lengths, fitting trimmings, and trying effects. It was done at last; and then Matilda desired the coachman to take her to 316 Bolivar street.

It was very grand, to ride in a carriage all alone by herself; to sink back on those luxurious cushions and look out at the people who were getting along in the world less easily; trudging over the stones and going through the dirt. And it was very pleasant to feel that she had a stock of rich and elegant dresses getting ready for her wear, and such a home of comfort, instead of the old last summer's life at Mrs. Candy's. Matilda was grown strong and well, her cheeks filled out and fresh-coloured; she felt like another Matilda. But as she drove along with these thoughts, the other thought came up to her, of her new opportunities. The Lord's child, – yes, that was not changed; she was that still; what was the work she ought to do, here and now? Opportunities for what, had she? Matilda thought carefully about it. And one thing which she had expected she could do, she feared was going out of her reach. How was she ever to have more money to spare for people needing it, if the demands of her new position kept pace with her increased means? If her boots must always cost seven dollars instead of three, having twice as much money to buy them with would not much help the matter. "And they must," said Matilda to herself. "With such dresses as these I am to have, and in such a house as Mrs. Lloyd's, those common boots I used to wear at Shadywalk would not do at all. And to wear with my red and green silks, I know I must have a new pair of slippers, with bows, like Judy's. I wonder how much they will cost? And then I shall hardly have even pennies for the little girls that sweep the street, at that rate."

Opportunities? were all her opportunities gone from her at once? That could not be; and yet Matilda did not see her way out of the question.

So the carriage rolled along with her, and she by and by got tired of thinking and began to examine more carefully into what there was to see. She was coming into a quarter of the city unlike those where she had been before. The house of Mme. Fournissons was in a very quiet street certainly; but what she was passing now was far below that in pretension. These streets were very uncomfortable, she thought, even to ride through. Yet the houses themselves were as good and as large as many houses in Shadywalk. But nothing in Shadywalk, no, not Lilac lane itself, was so repelling. Nothing in Shadywalk was so dingy and dark. Lilac lane was dirty, and poor; yet it was broad enough and the cottages stood far enough apart to let the sky look in. Here, in these streets, houses and people seemed to be packed. There was a bare look of want; a forlorn abandonment of every sort of pleasantness; what must it be to go in at one of those doors? Matilda thought; and to live there? – the idea was too disagreeable to dwell upon. Yet people lived there. What sort? Dingy people, as far as Matilda could see; dirty people, and as hopeless looking as the houses. It was not however a region of the wretchedly poor through which her course lay; the windows were whole and the roofs were decent; but it made the little girl's heart sick to look at it all, and read the signs she could not read. Through street after street of this general character the carriage went; narrow streets, very full of mud and dirt; where the horses stepped round an overturned basket of garbage in one place, and in another stopped for a dray to get out of their path; where children looked as if their heads were never brushed, and often the women looked as if their clothes were never clean. Matilda could never walk to see her sisters, that was plain; she was glad nobody was in the carriage with her; and she was much disappointed to see even a part of New York look like this.

In a street a little wider, a little cleaner, a shade or two more respectable, the carriage stopped at last. It stopped, and Matilda got out. Was this Bolivar street? But she looked and saw that 316 was the number of the house. So she rang the bell.

It was the right place; and she was shewn into a parlour, where she had to wait a little. It was respectable, and yet it oppressed all Matilda's senses. The room was full of buckwheat cake smoke, to begin with, which had filled it that morning and probably every morning of the week, and was never encouraged, nor indeed had ever a chance, to pass away. So each morning made its addition to the stock, till now Matilda felt as if it could be almost seen as well as felt. It certainly was in the carpet, the dingy old brown carpet, in which the worn holes were too many and too evident to be hidden by rug or crumb cloth or concealed by disposition of furniture. It wreathed the lamps on the mantelpiece and the picture on the wall, which last represented a very white monument with a very green willow tree drooping limp tresses over it, and a lady in black pressing a white handkerchief to her eyes. An old mahogany chest of drawers and a table with some books on it did not help the effect; for the chest of drawers was out of place, the cotton table cover was dingy and hung awry, and the books were soiled and dog's eared. Matilda felt all this in three minutes; then she forgot it in the joy of seeing her sisters. The greeting on her part was very warm; too warm for her to find out that on their part it was a little constrained. They were interested enough, however, in all that had befallen Matilda, to give talk full flow; and made her tell them the whole story of the past months; the ship fever, the visit at Briery Bank, the adoption of herself to be a child of the house, the coming to New York, and the composition of the family circle in Mrs. Lloyd's house. The elder sisters said very little all the while, except to ask questions.

"And it's for good and all!" said Letitia, when Matilda had done.

"Yes. For good and all!"

"And what is Maria doing?" said Anne.

"Maria is in Poughkeepsie, you know, learning mantua-making."

"Is she happy? does she get along well?"

"I don't know," replied Matilda dubiously. She had not known Maria to seem happy for a very long period; certainly not at the time of her last visit to her.

"And we are here," said Letitia. "I don't know why all the good should come to Matilda, for my part."

Matilda could say nothing. It was a dash of cold water.

"I suppose you have everything in the world you want?" Letitia went on.

"Does she treat you really exactly as if you were her child?" said Anne. "Mrs. Laval, I mean."

"Just as if I were," said Matilda.

"And you can have everything you want?" asked Letitia; but not as if she were glad of it.

"If Mrs. Laval knows it," said Matilda.

"You can let her know it, I suppose. It ain't fair!" cried Letitia; "it ain't fair! Why should Matilda have all the good that comes to anybody? Here this child can have everything she wants; and you and I, and Maria, have to work and work and pinch and pinch, and can't get it then."

"Is that your dress for every day?" said Anne, after she had lifted Matilda's cloak to see what was underneath.

"I don't know, Anne."

"You don't know? Don't you know what you wear every day?"

"Yes, but I don't know what will be my every day frock. I do not wear the same in the morning and in the afternoon."

"You don't!" said Anne. "How many dresses have you?"

"And what are they?" added Letitia.

Matilda was obliged to tell.

"Think of it!" said Letty. "This child! She has silks and cashmeres and reps, more than she can use; and I, old as I am, haven't a dress to go to church in, but one that I have worn a whole winter. I could get one for twenty shillings, and I haven't money to spare for that!"

"Hush," said Anne; "we shall do better by and by, when we have gone further into the business."

"We shall be delving in the business though, for it, all the while. And Matilda is to do nothing and live grand. She'll be too grand to look at us and Maria."

"Where do you live?" Anne asked.

"It's the corner of 40th street and Blessington Avenue."

Anne's face darkened.

"Where is Blessington Avenue?" asked Letitia.

"It's away over the other side of the city," Anne answered.

"Well, I suppose there is all New York between us," said Letitia. "Don't you think this is a delightful part of the town, Matilda?"

"I should think you would go back to Shadywalk, Anne and Letty, when you have learned what you want to learn; it would be pleasanter to make dresses for the people there, wouldn't it, than for people here?"

"Speak for yourself," said Letty. "Do you think nobody wants to be in New York but you?"