"Is Mis' Eldridge sick?"
"No. I only want to make her a cup of tea."
"I hadn't heerd nothin' of her bein' sick. Be you a friend o' hern?"
"Yes."
"We've got sickness in this house," the woman went on. "And everythin's wantin' where there's sickness; and hard to get it. It's my old mother. She lies in there" – nodding towards an inner room – "night and day, and day and night; and she'd like a bit o' comfort now and then as well as another; and 'tain't often as I kin give it to her. Life's hard to them as hain't got nothin' to live on. I hadn't ought to complain, and I don't complain; but sometimes it comes over me that life's hard."
Here was another!
"What does she want?" Matilda asked. "Is she very sick?"
"She won't never be no better," her daughter answered; "and she lies there and knows she won't never be no better; and she's all as full of aches as she kin be, sometimes; and other times she's more easy like; but she lies there and knows she can't never get up no more in this world; and she wants 'most everythin'. I do what I kin."
"Do you think you can lend me your tea-kettle? I will be very much obliged."
"Well, if you'll bring it back yourself – I 'spose I will. It's all the kettle I've got."
She fetched it out of a receptacle behind the stove, brushed the soot from its sides with a chicken's wing, and handed it to Matilda. It was an iron tea-kettle, not very large to be sure, but very heavy to hold at arm's length; and so Matilda was obliged to carry it, for fear of smutching her frock. She begged a match too, and hastened back over the street as well as she could. But Matilda's heart, though glad at the comfort she was about to give, began to be wearily heavy on account of the comfort she could not give; comfort that was lacking in so many quarters where she could do nothing. She easily kindled her fire now; filled the tea-kettle at the pump – this was very difficult, but without more borrowing she could not help it – and at last got the kettle on, and had the joy of hearing it begin to sing. The worst came now. For that tea-cup and saucer and plate must be washed before they could be used; and Matilda could not bear to touch them. She thought of taking the unused cup at the back of the shelf; but conscience would not let her. "You know those ought to be washed," said conscience; "and if you do not do it, perhaps nobody else will." Matilda earnestly wished that somebody else might. She had no bowl, either, to wash them in, and no napkin to dry them. And here a dreadful thought suggested itself. Did Mrs. Eldridge herself, too, do without washing? There were no towels to be seen anywhere. Sick at heart, the little girl gathered up the soiled pieces of crockery in her basket – the basket had a paper in it – and went over the way again to Mrs. Rogers' cottage. As she went, it crossed her mind, could Mrs. Rogers perhaps be the other one of those two in Lilac Lane who needed to have the Bible read to them? Or were there still others? And how many Christians there had need to be in the world, to do all the work of it. Even in Shadywalk. And what earnest Christians they had need to be.
"Back again a'ready?" said the woman, as she let her in. Matilda showed what she had in her basket, and asked for something to wash her dishes in. She got more than she asked for; Sabrina Rogers took them from her to wash them herself.
"She has nobody to do anything for her," Matilda observed of the poor old owner of the cup and saucer.
"She ain't able to do for herself," remarked Sabrina; "that's where the difference is. The folks as has somebody to do su'thin' for them, is lucky folks. I never see none o' that luck myself."
"But your mother has you," said Matilda, gently.
"I can't do much for her, either," said Sabrina. "Poor folks must take life as they find it. And they find it hard."
"Can your mother read?"
"She's enough to do to lie still and bear it, without readin'," said the daughter. "Folks as has to get their livin' has to do without readin'."
"But would she like it?" Matilda asked.
"I wonder when these things was washed afore," said the woman, scrubbing at them. "Like it? You kin go in and ask her."
Matilda pushed open the inner door, and somewhat reluctantly went in. It was decent, that room was; and this disabled old woman lay under a patchwork quilt, on a bed that seemed comfortable. But the window was shut, and the air was close. It was very disagreeable.
"How do you do to-day, Mrs. Rogers?" Matilda said, stepping nearer the bed.
"Who's that?" was the question.
"Matilda Englefield."
"Who's 'Tilda Eggleford?"
"I live in the village," said Matilda. "Are you much sick?"
"Laws, I be!" said the poor woman. "It's like as if my bones was on fire, some nights. Yes, I be sick. And I'll never be no better."
"Does anybody ever come to read the Bible to you?"
"Read the Bible?" the sick woman repeated. Her face looked dull, as if there had ceased to be any thoughts behind it. Matilda wondered if it was because she had so little to think of. "What about reading the Bible?" she said.
"You cannot read lying there, can you?"
"There ain't a book nowheres in the house."
"Not a Bible?"
"A Bible? I hain't seen a Bible in five year."
"Do you remember what is in the Bible?" said Matilda, greatly shocked. This was living without air.
"Remember?" said the woman. "I'm tired o' 'membering. I'd like to go to sleep and remember no more. What's the use?"
"What do you remember?" Matilda asked in some awe.
"I remember 'most everything," said the woman, wearily. "Times when I was well and strong – and young – and had my house comfor'ble and my things respectable. Them times was once. And I had what I wanted, and could do what I had a mind to. There ain't no use in remembering. I'd like to forget. Now I lie here."
"Do you remember nothing else?" said Matilda.
"I remember it all," said the woman. "I've nothin' to do but think. When I was first married, and just come home, and thought all the world was" – she stopped to sigh – "a garden o' posies. 'Tain't much like it – to poor folks. And I had my children around me – Sabriny's the last on 'em. She's out there, ain't she?"
"Yes."
"What's she doin'?"
"She is ironing."
"Yes; she takes in. Sabriny has it all to do. I can't do nothin' – this five year."
"May I come and see you again, Mrs. Rogers? I must go now."
"You may come if you like," was the answer. "I don't know what you should want to come for."
Matilda was afraid her fire of pine sticks would give out; and hurried across the lane again with her basket of clean things. The stove had fired up, to be sure; and Mrs. Eldridge was sitting crouched over it, with an evident sense of enjoyment that went to Matilda's heart. If the room now were but clean, she thought, and the other room; and the bed made, and Mrs. Eldridge herself. There was too much to think of; Matilda gave it up, and attended to the business in hand. The kettle boiled. She made the tea in the tea-cup; laid a herring on the stove; spread some bread and butter; and in a few minutes invited Mrs. Eldridge's attention to her supper spread on a chair. The old woman drank the tea as if it were the rarest of delicacies; Matilda filled up her cup again; and then she fell to work on the fish and bread and butter, tearing them to pieces with her fingers, and in great though silent appreciation. Meanwhile Matilda brought the cupboard to a little order; and then filling up Mrs. Eldridge's cup for the third time, carried back the kettle to Sabrina Rogers and begged the loan of an old broom.
"What do you want to do with it?"
"Mrs. Eldridge's room wants sweeping very much."
"Likely it does! Who's a going to sweep it, though, if I lend you my broom?"
"There's