And when conscience meets any one, it is the same thing as to say that the Lord meets him.
That was what Matilda felt this night. For her reading fell upon the story of the woman who brought the precious ointment for the head of Jesus, and poured it upon His feet also; whom the Lord, when she was chidden, commended; saying, "Ye have the poor with you always, and whensoever ye will ye may do them good: but Me ye have not always. She hath done what she could."
Had Matilda? And these poor whom we have always with us, she recollected that in another place the Lord in a sort identifies Himself with them, saying that what is done to His poor is done to Himself. Mrs. Eldridge was not indeed one of the Lord's children, but that did not help the matter. "For perhaps she will be," Matilda said to herself. And what if the Lord had sent Matilda there now to be His messenger? The success of the message might depend on the behaviour of the messenger. But above all it pressed upon Matilda's heart that she had not done what she could; and that in declining to make a fire in Mrs. Eldridge's rusty little stove and in shrinking from waiting upon her, she had lost a chance of waiting upon, perhaps, the Lord himself.
"And it was such a good chance," thought Matilda; "such a good afternoon; and there is no telling when I may get another. It was such a good opportunity. And I lost it."
The pain of a lost opportunity was something she had not counted upon. It pressed hard, and was not easy to get rid of. The disagreeableness of the place and the service faded into nothing before this pain. Matilda went to bed with a sore heart, resolving to watch for the very first chance to do what she had neglected to do this afternoon.
But Lilac Lane looked very disagreeable to her thoughts the next day, and the sharp effect of the Bible words had faded somewhat.
"Maria," she said as they were washing up the dishes after breakfast, – "I wish you would help me in something."
"What?"
"Do you call yourself a member of the Band yet?"
"Of course I do. What do you ask for?"
"I did not know," said Matilda, sighing. "You don't do the things promised in the covenant. I didn't know but you had given it all up."
"What don't I do?" inquired Maria, fiercely.
"Don't be angry, please, Maria. I do not mean to make you angry."
"What don't I do, Matilda?"
"You know, the covenant says, 'we stand ready to do His will.' He has commanded that we should be baptized and join the Church, and that we should follow Him – you know how, Maria. And you don't seem to like to do it."
"Is that all?"
"That is all about that."
"Then, if you will mind your affairs, Matilda, I will try and mind mine. And I will be much obliged to you."
"Then you will not help me?"
"Help in what?"
"There is a poor woman, Maria," said her little sister, lowering her voice, "a poor old woman, who has no one to take care of her, and hardly anything to live upon. She lives – you can't think how she lives! – in the most miserable little house, dirty and all; and without fire or anybody to sweep her room, or make her bed, or make a cup of tea for her. If you would help me, we might do something to make her comfortable."
"Where is she?"
"In Lilac Lane."
"Have you been to see her?"
"Yes."
"What do you think Aunt Candy would say if she knew it?"
"Will you help me, Maria?"
"Help make her bed and sweep her room?"
"Yes, and get her a cup of tea sometimes, and a clean supper."
"A clean supper!" exclaimed Maria. "Well! Yes, I guess I'll help you, when I have nothing of my own to do. When the dinner gets itself, and the house stays swept and dusted, and Aunt Candy lives without cakes for breakfast."
Matilda was silent.
"But I'll tell you what, Matilda," said her sister, "Aunt Candy will never let you do this sort of work. You may as well give it up peaceably, and not worry yourself nor anybody else. She'll never let you go into Lilac Lane – not to speak of getting dirty people's dinners. You may as well quit it."
"Don't tell her, Maria."
"You'll tell her yourself, first thing," said Maria, scornfully.
Matilda had to go up-stairs soon to her reading in her aunt's room. It was even more unintelligible, the reading, this time than before; because Matilda's head was running so busily on something else.
"You do not read well, child," said her aunt.
"No, ma'am. I do not understand it."
"But it is about what you have just done, Matilda. It is about the ordinance of baptism, and the life proper to a person who has been received into the Church. You ought to understand that."
"I do understand it, in the Bible."
"What does the Bible say about it?"
"It says, – 'My sheep hear My voice: and I know them, and they follow Me.'"
"What do you mean by 'following Him'?"
"Why, living the sort of life He lived, and doing what He tells us to do."
"How do you propose to live the sort of life He lived? It's almost blasphemy."
"Why, no, aunt Candy; He tells us to do it."
"Do what?"
"Live the sort of life He lived. He says we must follow Him."
"Well, how, for instance? In what?"
"You know how He lived," said Matilda. "He helped people, and He taught people, and He cured people; He was always doing good to people, and trying to make them good. Especially poor, miserable people, that nobody cared for."
"Trying to make them good!" said Mrs. Candy. "As if His omnipotence could not have made them good in a minute."
"Then why didn't He?" said Matilda, simply. "It sounds as if He was trying to make them good."
"Well, child – it's no use talking; I wish I had had the training of you earlier," said Mrs. Candy. "You are so prepossessed with ideas that border on fanaticism, that it is a hard matter to get you into right habits of thinking. Come here and take your darning."
So Matilda did. The darning was not wearisome at all to-day, so busy her thoughts were with the question of Mrs. Eldridge; how much or how little Matilda ought to do for her, how much she could, and what were the best arrangements to be set on foot. So intent she was on these questions, that the darning was done with the greatest patience, and therefore with the greatest success. Mrs. Candy and her daughter even looked at each other and smiled over the demure, thoughtful little face of the workwoman; and Matilda got praise for her work.
She had made up her mind meanwhile that "she hath done what she could" – should be her rule to go by. So as the after noon was fair, and Mrs. Candy and her daughter both gone to make a visit at some miles' distance, Matilda sallied forth.
"Did she give you leave?" Maria asked, as she saw her sister getting ready.
"No."
"She wants you to ask leave always."
"I never used to do that," said Matilda. Her voice choked before she could finish her sentence.
"You will get into trouble."
"One trouble is better than another, though," said Matilda; and she went.
She went first to Mr. Sample's, and asked how much a pound of tea cost.
"The