The House in Town

"A dollar a week, maybe; more or less, as the case might be."

There was silence again; until Mr. Wharncliffe and Matilda had come to Blessington avenue and were walking down its clean and spacious sideway.

"Mr. Wharncliffe," said Matilda suddenly, "why are some people so rich and other people so poor?"

"There are a great many reasons."

"What are some of them? can't I understand?"

"You can understand this; that people who are industrious, and careful, and who have a talent for business, get on in the world better than those who are idle or wasteful or self-indulgent or wanting in cleverness."

"Yes; I can understand that."

"The first class of people make money, and their children, who maybe are neither careful nor clever, inherit it; along with their business friends, and their advantages and opportunities; while the children of the idle and vicious inherit not merely the poverty but to some extent the other disadvantages of their parents. So one set are naturally growing richer and richer and the other naturally go on from poor to poorer."

"Yes, I understand that," said Matilda, with a perplexed look. "But some of these poor people are not bad nor idle?"

"Perhaps their parents have been. Or without business ability; and the one thing often leads to another."

"But" – said Matilda, and stopped.

"What is it?"

"It puzzles me, sir. I was going to say, God could make it all better; and why don't he?"

"He will do everything for us, Matilda," said her friend gravely, "except those things he has given us to do. He will help us to do those; but he will not prevent the consequences of our idleness or disobedience. Those we must suffer; and others suffer with us, and because of us."

"But then" – said Matilda looking up, – "the rich ought to take care of the poor."

"That is what the Lord meant we should do. We ought to find them work, and see that they get proper pay for it; and not let them die of hunger or disease in the mean while."

"Well, why don't people do so?" said Matilda.

"Some try. But in general, people have not come yet to love their neighbours as themselves."

"Thank you, Mr. Wharncliffe," Matilda said, as he stopped at the foot of Mrs. Lloyd's steps.

He smiled, and inquired, "For what?"

"For taking me there."

"Why?" said he, growing grave.

But a little to his surprise the little girl hurried up the steps without making him any answer.

In the house, she hurried in like manner up the first flight of stairs and up the second flight. Then, reaching her own floor, where nobody was apt to be at that time of Sunday afternoons, the child stopped and stood still.

She did not even wait to open her own door; but clasping the rail of the balusters she bent down her little head there and burst into a passion of weeping. Was there such utter misery in the world, and near her, and she could not relieve it? Was it possible that another child, like herself, could be so unlike herself in all the comforts and helps and hopes of life, and no remedy? Matilda could not accept the truth which her eyes had seen. She recalled Sarah's gentle, grave face, and sober looks, as she had seen her on her crossing, along with the gleam of a smile that had come over them two or three times; and her heart almost broke. She stood still, sobbing, thinking herself quite safe and alone; so that she started fearfully when she suddenly heard a voice close by her. It was David Bartholomew, come out of his room.

"What in the world's to pay?" said he. "What is the matter? You needn't start as if I were a grisly bear! But what is the matter, Tilly?"

Matilda was less afraid of him lately; and she would have answered, but there was too much to say. The burden of her heart could not be put into words at first. She only cried aloud, —

"Oh David! – Oh David!"

"What then?" said David. "What has Judy been doing?"

"Judy! O nothing. I don't mind Judy."

"Very wise of you, I'm sure, and I am very glad to hear it. What has troubled you? something bad, I should judge."

"Something so bad, you could never think it was true," said Matilda, making vain efforts to dry off the tears which kept welling freshly forth.

"Have you lost something?"

"I? O no; I haven't got any thing to lose. Nothing particular, I mean. But I have seen such a place" —

"A place?" said David, very much puzzled. "What about the place?"

"Oh, David, such a place! And people live there!" – Matilda could not get on.

David was curious. He stood and waited, while Matilda sobbed and tried to stop and talk to him. For, seeing that he wanted to hear, it was a sort of satisfaction to tell to some one what filled her heart. And at last, being patient, he managed to get a tolerably clear report of the case. He did not run off at once then. He stood still looking at Matilda.

"It's disgraceful," he said. "It didn't use to be so among my people."

"And, oh David, what can we do? What can I do? I don't feel as if I could bear to think that Sarah must sleep in that place to-night. Why the floor was just earth, damp and wet. And not a bedstead – just think! What can I do, David?"

"I don't see that you can do much. You cannot build houses to lodge all the poor of the city. That would take a good deal of money; more than you have got, little one."

"But – I can't reach them all, but I can do something for this one," said Matilda. "I must do something."

"Even that would take a good deal of money," said David.

"I must do something," Matilda repeated. And she went to her own room to ponder how, while she was getting ready for dinner. Could she save anything from her Christmas money?

CHAPTER XII

Matilda's thoughts about Christmas took now another character. Instead of the delightful confusion of pretty things for rich hands, among which she had only to choose, her meditations dwelt now upon the homelier supplies of the wants of her poor little neighbour. What could be had instead of that damp cellar with its mud floor? how might some beginnings of comfort be brought to cluster round the little street-sweeper, who except in Sunday school had hardly known what comfort was? It lay upon Matilda's heart; she dreamed about it at night and thought about it nearly all day, while she was mending Mrs. Lloyd's lace shawl.

The shawl was getting mended; that was a satisfactory certainty; but it took a great deal of time. Slowly the delicate fabric seemed to grow, and the place that the candle flame had entered seemed to be less and less; very slowly, for the lace was exceedingly fine and the tracery of embroidered or wrought flowers was exceeding rich. Matilda was shut up in her room the most part of the time that week; it was the Christmas week, and the shawl must be finished before the party of Friday night. Mrs. Laval sometimes came in to look at the little worker and kiss her. And one afternoon Norton came pounding at her door.

"Is it you, Norton?"

"Of course. Come out, Pink; we want you."

Matilda put down her work and opened the door.

"Come out; we are going to rehearse, and we want you, Pink."