The House in Town

"I do. I don't want this delicate colour on your cheek," and she touched it as she spoke, "to grow thick and muddy; I want the skin to be as fair and clear as it is now."

"Norton takes coffee," said Mrs. Bartholomew.

"I know. Norton is a boy. It don't matter."

"Judy!" Mrs. Bartholomew called across the room, "Judy! don't you touch coffee."

"It's so hot mamma, I don't touch it. I swallow it without touching. It goes right down."

"I don't like you to drink it."

"It would be a great deal pleasanter to drink it, than to swallow it in that way," said Judy, coming across the room with a hop, skip and jump indescribable. "But coffee is coffee anyhow. Mayn't I take it a little cooler and a little slower next time?"

"It will make your complexion thick."

"It will make my eyes bright, though," said Judy unblushingly.

"I never heard that," said Mrs. Bartholomew laughing.

"O but I have, though," said Judy. "I have seen your eyes ever so bright, mamma, when you have been drinking coffee."

"Yours are bright enough without it," said her mother.

"Yes'm," said Judy contentedly, standing her ground.

Matilda wondered a good deal at both mother and daughter, and she was amused too; Judy was so funnily impudent, and Mrs. Bartholomew so lazily authoritative. She nestled within Mrs. Laval's arm which encircled her, and felt safe, in the midst of very strange social elements. Mrs. Lloyd eyed her.

"How old is that child, Zara?"

"About Judith's age."

"No, she isn't, aunt Zara," said Judy. "She is about seven years and three months."

"And what are you?" said her aunt.

"Judith is over twelve," said Mrs. Bartholomew. "Surely that child is not so old?"

"Matilda is the shortest," said Mrs. Laval, looking from one to the other.

"And much the youngest looking," said Mrs. Lloyd. "How do you like New York, my dear?"

"She likes it," said Judy, – "if she only could have got a black satin cloak."

Matilda stared at her in mingled amazement and shame. Mrs. Laval laughed and hugged Matilda up a little closer.

"A black satin cloak?" she repeated. "Did you wish for a black satin cloak, my dear?"

"Trimmed with a deep fall of lace," added Judy.

"O Judy," exclaimed Matilda, "you said nothing about lace!"

"You wanted it, though," said Judith.

"I never thought of such a thing, mamma, as lace," said Matilda appealingly.

"But you did wish for the satin?"

"Judy seemed to think it would be pretty. She wanted me to ask you to get it."

The shout of laughter which was raised upon this, Matilda did not at all understand. They all laughed, Judy not the least of them. Matilda was very much ashamed.

"Oh Judy, Judy!" her aunt said. "Matilda, black satin is what old ladies wear. She has been fooling you, as she fools everybody. You mustn't believe Judy Bartholomew in anything she tells you. You would be a little old woman, in a black satin cloak with deep lace."

"She said nothing about lace," Matilda repeated. "But I shall learn what is proper, in her company."

And Matilda's little head, despite her confusion, took the airy set upon her shoulders which was with her the unconscious expression of disdain or disapprobation. There was another burst of laughter.

"Your shoulders are older than your face, my dear," observed Mrs. Lloyd. "Judith must take care what she does. I see there is something in you."

Happily this speech was Greek to Matilda; she had not the least knowledge of what called it forth. However, she took it as a sign that Mrs. Lloyd was beginning to like her a little. All the more she was sorry, as her feet went up the stairs that night, that the way was not clear about the Christmas gift for the stately old lady.

She had meant to speak of it to the other children, but had no chance. After Mrs. Laval called her to tell her about the coffee, the quartette party was broken up; the two boys had left the room and not come back again. So what would have been better disposed of at once, was of necessity laid over to the next day. Matilda had scruples about taking part in a gift that had anything to do with the promotion of drinking. She knew well enough what liqueur was; she had tasted it on the occasion of that first memorable visit she and Maria had made to Mrs. Laval's house; she knew it was very strong, stronger than wine, she thought; for people only drank it out of little glasses that would not hold much more than a good thimbleful. She had seen it once or twice already at Mrs. Lloyd's served after dinner. She had seen David and Norton and Judy all take it. Now she herself was pledged to do all she could in the cause of temperance. Her all would not be much here, something said to her; nobody would mind what she thought or said; true. Nevertheless, ought she not to do what she could? according to her old motto. And following her new motto, to "do all in the name of the Lord Jesus," could she rightly join, even silently, in a plan to make a present of drinking flasks and glasses? But if she refused, what a fuss it would make!

Matilda went slowly up the stairs thinking of it; and arrived in her room, she turned on the gas and opened her Bible and sat down to study the question. She found she could not read, any more than those few strong words; they seemed to cover the whole ground; "Whatsoever ye do, in word or deed, do all in the name of the Lord Jesus." Could she, as his little servant, help the other children in giving such a gift? And she was pledged, as a member of the Commission no less than as a servant of Christ, to do all she could for the cause of temperance. Would it not be something for the cause of temperance, if she declared off from having anything to do with the liqueur stand? She had felt she must try somehow to speak to David and Norton about their own drinking wine; this was a good chance, and if she let this chance go – I can never do it another time, she thought to herself. But oh, the difficulty and the pain of it! They thought her a baby, and a little country girl, who knew nothing; they would laugh at her so, and perhaps be angry too. How could she do it! And once or twice Matilda put her head down on her book in the struggle, wishing with all her heart it were not so hard to be a Christian.

But all her thoughts and her prayers only made her more and more sure which way lay the course of duty; and along with that grew a heavy looking forward to the next day and the trial it would bring. How to manage the matter best was a question. To speak privately to Norton alone would be far the easiest; but then, that might not secure the effect of her protest against wine and cordials and all such things, as she wished to make it; Norton would perhaps cover it up, for the sake of shielding her and himself from the reproaches of the others; and so the work would not be done. She could not decide. She was obliged to go to bed and leave it to circumstances to open the way for her. She half made up her mind that the "opportunities" of her new position were as likely to be opportunities for self denial as for anything else. This was not what she had expected.

Saturday morning rose still and fair. The wind had gone down; the severe cold had abated; the weather was beautifully prosperous for the children's expedition. Now if Matilda could get a chance to speak before they set out – It would be awkward to have to speak in the store, maybe before a shopman, and when they were all on the very point of finishing what they came to do. Matilda was ready to wish the day had been stormy; and yet she wanted to go to Tiffany's, where Norton had said he would take her; and to Candello's too, for the matter of that

There was another question Matilda had to settle with herself, only she could not attend to so many things at once. Her twenty dollars for Christmas purchases; how was all that to be spent "in the name of the Lord Jesus"? She could not think of it just now, except by snatches; she kept remembering it, and trying to reckon how many people she had to buy things for. New York certainly was a very puzzling place to live in.

The other children seemed to be as full of business as she, and much less quiet about it. So Matilda did not find a chance to speak to Norton in private, which in her trouble she would have done if she could. It was all bustle and discussion till they went to get ready for their walk. Matilda laced on her new boots, Judy won't have any occasion to look scornfully at those, she said to herself. They are as nice as they can be.

A little to her surprise, when she got downstairs she found Miss Judy dressed in a black silk pelisse. What was the difference between silk and satin, Matilda wondered? Judy caught her glance perhaps, for with a twinkle of her own sharp black eyes she burst out into a peal of laughter.

"What is the matter now?" her brother asked.

"Things become people so differently," said Judith saucily. "Something you couldn't understand, Davy; men don't, nor boys neither. Matilda and I understand."

"Matilda don't understand much that you do," said Norton.

"An' that's thrue for ye!" said Judy with a strong Irish accent. "Faith, the craythur, she's just innicent!"

"Hush, Judy," said her brother laughing; and "You're a case, Judy," said Norton; and so they went out at the front door. Matilda's opportunity was gone; she had thought to speak out to them all while they were in the hall; and now she was a little too vexed to speak, for a while. However, it was a gay walk down the avenue and then down Broadway. The day was very fine and all the world seemed to be out and astir. Norton was talking very busily too, and the excitement of business soon chased away the momentary excitement of displeasure. In the midst of all this, every few blocks they came to street sweepers. A little girl or a little boy, grey and ragged, keeping a clean crossing and holding out eager little hands for the pennies they did not get. David and Norton and Judith did not so much as look at the children, passing the outstretched hands as if unseen; and Matilda had no pennies; nothing but her twenty dollar bill. Every few blocks there was one of these poor, grey dusty figures and one of those little empty hands. Matilda might have forgotten one or two, if that had been all; it was impossible to forget this company. How came their life to be so different from her life? What a hard way to spend one's days! always at a street corner. And where did they hide themselves at night? And did any of those poor little ones ever know what Christmas meant? And most of all, what could or ought she to do for them, she who had so much? What could be squeezed out of those twenty dollars to refresh the corners of the streets? anything?

Thinking about this, and replying to Norton, and finding her way among the crowds of people, they had come to Candello's before Matilda had found a time to speak anything of what was chiefly on her mind.

It was a long bright store, elegant with its profusion of beautiful things in glass and porcelain and bronze. Every foot of the counters and of the floor, along the sides of the room, seemed to Matilda to be filled with things to be looked at. Such beautiful basins and ewers, just for washing! Such charming vases and flower glasses! Such handsome clocks and statuettes and lamps! Then there were painted cups, and flowered goblets and tumblers, and flasks wonderfully cut, and bowls, large and beautiful, but clearly not for toilet use, that excited Matilda's wonderment. She was lost in delight as well as wonder.