It was with nothing less than horror that Matilda now earnestly besought her aunt to think better of this determination. She did dislike cold water, and after a child's luxurious fashion had always been allowed to use warm water. But worse than cold water was the idea of her aunt, or anybody, presuming to apply it in the capacity of bather. Matilda refused and pleaded, alternately; pleaded very humbly at last; but in vain.
"I thought I knew something that would bring you down," Mrs. Candy said composedly and pleased; and in the same manner proceeded to strip off Matilda's clothes, put her in the bath-tub, and make thorough application of the hated element as she had said, from head to foot; scrubbing and dousing and sponging; till if Matilda had been in the sea she would not better have known how cold water felt all over her. It was done in five minutes, too; and then, after being well rubbed down, Matilda was directed to put on her clothes again and finish her patching.
"I fancy you will feel refreshed for it now," said her aunt. "This will be a good thing for you. I used to give it to Clarissa always when she was a little thing; and now I will do the same by you, my love. Every day, you shall come to me in the morning when you first get up."
No announcement could have been more dismayful; but this time Matilda said nothing. She bent herself to her patching, the one uppermost desire being to finish it and get out of the room. The cold water had refreshed and strengthened her, much as she disliked and hated it; at the same time the sense of hunger, from the same cause, grew keener than ever. Matilda tried her very best to lay the patch straight, and get it basted so. And so keen the endeavour was, so earnest the attention, that though laying a linen patch by the thread is a nice piece of business, she succeeded at last. Mrs. Candy was content with the work, satisfied with its being only basted for that time, and let her go.
Matilda slowly made her way down to the lower regions, where Maria was still at work, and asked for something to eat. Maria looked very black, and demanded explanations of what was going on up-stairs. Matilda would say nothing, until she had found something to satisfy her hunger, and had partially devoured a slice of bread and meat. In the midst of that she broke off, and wrapping her arms round her sister in a clinging way, exclaimed suddenly —
"O Maria, keep me, keep me!"
"Keep you! from what? What do you mean, Tilly?" said the astonished Maria.
"From Aunt Candy. Can't you keep me?"
"What has she done?" Maria asked, growing very wrathful.
"Can't you keep me from her, Maria?"
"And I say, what has she done to you, Tilly? Do hold up and answer me. How can I tell anything when you act like that? What has she done?"
"She says she'll give me a cold bath every morning," Matilda said, seeming to shrink and shiver as she said it.
"A cold bath!" exclaimed Maria.
"Yes. Oh, can't you keep me from it?"
"What has put the notion in her head?"
"She used to do it to Clarissa, she says; but I think she wants to do it to me because I don't like it. Oh, I don't like it, Maria!"
"She's too mean for anything," said Maria. "I never saw anything like her. But maybe it won't be so bad as you think, Tilly. She and Clarissa both take a cold bath every morning, you know; and they like it."
"I don't like it!" said Matilda, with the extremest accent of repugnance.
"Maybe it won't seem so bad when you've tried."
"I have tried," said Matilda, bursting into tears; "she gave me one to-day, and I don't like it; and I can't bear to have her bathe me!"
Matilda's tears came now in a shower, with sobs of the most heartfelt trouble. Maria looked black as a thunder-cloud.
"O Maria, can't you keep me from her?"
"Not without killing her," said Maria. "I feel as if I would almost like to do that sometimes."
"O Maria, you mustn't speak so!" said Matilda, shocked even in the midst of her grief.
"Well, and I don't mean it," said Maria; "but what can I do, Tilly? If she takes a notion in her head, she will follow it, you know; and it would take more than ever I saw to turn her. And you see, she thinks cold water is the best thing in the world."
"Yes, but I can't bear to have her bathe me!" Matilda repeated. "And I don't like cold water. She rubs, and she scrubs, and she throws the water over me, and the soap-suds, and she don't care at all whether I like it or not. I wish I could get away! I wish I could get away, Maria! Oh, I wish I could get away!"
"So do I wish I could," said Maria, gloomily eyeing her little sister's sobs. "We've got to stand it, Tilly, for the present. I haven't anywhere to go to, and you haven't. Come, don't cry. Eat your bread and meat. I dare say you will get used to cold water."
"I shall not get used to her," said Matilda.
However, a part of Maria's prediction did come true. Cold water is less terrible, the more acquaintance one has with it; and probably Mrs. Candy's assertion was also true, that it was capital for Matilda. And Matilda would not have much minded it at last, if only the administration could have been left to herself. But Mrs. Candy kept that in her own hands, knowing, probably, that it was one effectual means of keeping Matilda herself in her hands. Every morning, when Mrs. Candy's bell rang, Matilda was obliged to run down-stairs and submit herself to her aunt's manipulations, which were pretty much as she had described them; and under those energetic unscrupulous hands, which dealt with her as they listed, and regarded her wishes in no sort nor respect, Matilda was quite helpless; and she was subdued. Mrs. Candy had attained that end; she no longer thought of resisting her aunt in any way. It was the first time in Matilda's life that she had been obliged to obey another. Between her mother and herself the question had hardly arisen, except upon isolated occasions. She dared not let the question ever arise now with Mrs. Candy. She read, and darned, and patched, and grew skilful in those latter arts; she never objected now. She came to her bath, and never uttered now the vain pleadings which at first even her dignity gave way to make. Mrs. Candy had quite put down the question of dignity. Matilda did not venture to disobey her any more in anything. She went no more to walk without asking leave; she visited no more at Mrs. Laval's; Mrs. Candy even took Matilda in her triumph to her own church in the morning. Matilda suffered, but submitted without a word.
How much the child suffered, nobody knew or guessed. She kept it to herself. Mrs. Candy did not even suspect that there was much suffering in the case, beyond a little enforced submission, and a little disappointment now and then about going to see somebody. Mrs. Laval's house was forbidden, that was all; and for a few days Matilda did not get time, or leave, to go out to walk.
She was kept very busy. And she was pleasant about her work with Maria, and gentle and well-behaved when at her work with her aunt. Not gay, certainly, as she had begun to be sometimes lately, before this time; but Maria was so far from gaiety herself that she did not miss it in her sister; and Mrs. Candy saw no change but the change she had wished for. Nevertheless they did not see all. There were hours, when Matilda could shut herself up in her room and be alone, and Maria was asleep in her bed at night; when the little head bent over her Bible, and tears fell like rain, and struggles that nobody dreamed of went on in the child's heart. The thing she lived on, was the hope of getting out and doing that beloved shopping; meeting Norton, somehow, somewhere, as one does impossible things in a dream, and arranging with him to go to Lilac Lane together. The little pocket-book lay all safe and ready waiting for the time; and when Matilda could let herself think pleasant thoughts, she went into rapturous fancies of the wonderful changes to be wrought in Mrs. Eldridge's house.
She saw nothing meanwhile of Lemuel Dow. The Sunday following her afternoon at Mrs. Laval's had been a little rainy in the latter part of it. Perhaps the little Dow boy, who minded rain no more than a duck on other days, might be afraid of a wetting on Sunday. Other people often are. But Matilda meant to look for him next time, and have her sugared almonds in readiness.
One of the days of that week, it happened that Mrs. Candy took Matilda out with her for a walk. It was not at all agreeable to Matilda; but she was learning to submit to what was not agreeable, and she made no objection. On the way they stopped at Mr. Sample's store; Mrs. Candy wanted to get some smoked salmon. Mr. Sample served her himself.
"How did you like the tea I sent you?" he asked, while he was weighing the fish.
"Tea?" said Mrs. Candy. "You sent me no tea."
"Why, yes I did, last week; it was Monday or Tuesday, I think. You wanted to try another kind, I understood."
"I wanted nothing of the sort. I have plenty of tea on hand, and am perfectly suited with it. You have made some mistake."
"I am glad you are suited," Mr. Sample rejoined; "but I have made no mistake. This little girl came for it, and I weighed it out myself and gave it to her. And a loaf of bread at the same time."
"It was not for you, Aunt Candy; it was for myself," said Matilda. "I paid for it, Mr. Sample; it was not charged."
"You did not pay me, Miss Matilda."
"No, Mr. Sample; I paid Patrick."
"What did you buy tea and bread for?" her aunt inquired.
"I wanted it," Matilda answered.
"What for?"
"I wanted it to give away," Matilda said, in a low voice, being obliged to speak.
Mrs. Candy waited till they were out of the shop, and then desired to know particulars. For whom Matilda wanted it; where she took it; when she went; who went with her.
"Is it a clean place?" was her inquiry at last. Matilda was obliged to confess it was not.
"Don't go there again without my knowledge, Matilda. Do you hear?"
"I hear. But Aunt Candy," said Matilda, in great dismay, "it doesn't hurt me."
"No; I mean it shall not. Have you always gone wandering just where you liked?"
"Yes, always. Shadywalk is a perfectly safe place."
"For common children, perhaps. Not for you. Do not go near Lilac Lane again. It is a mercy you have escaped safe as it is."
Escaped from what, Matilda wondered. Even a little soil to her clothes might be washed off, and she did not think she had got so much harm as that. If she could only meet Norton now, before reaching home; there would never be another chance. Matilda longed to see him, with an intensity which seemed almost as if it must bring him before her; but it did not. In vain she watched every corner and every group of boys or cluster of people they passed; Norton's trim figure was not to be seen; and the house door shut upon Matilda in her despair. She went up to her room, and kneeling down, laid her head on the table.
"It's almost tea-time," said Maria. "What is the matter now?"
But Matilda was not crying; she was in despair.
"Come!" said Maria. "Come, what ails you? Tired? – It is time to get tea, Matilda, and I want your help. What is the matter now?"
Matilda lifted a perfectly forlorn face to her sister.
"I can't go anywhere!" she said. "I am in prison. I can't go to Lilac Lane any more. I cannot do anything any more. And they want me so!"
Down went Matilda's head. Maria stood, perhaps a little conscience struck.
"Who wants you so much?"
"The poor people there. Mrs. Eldridge and Mrs. Rogers. They want me so much."
"What for, Tilly?" said Maria, a little more gently than her wont.
"Oh, for a great many things," said Matilda, brushing away a tear or two; "and now I can go no more – I cannot do anything – Oh dear!"
The little girl broke down.
"She's the most hateful, spiteful, masterful woman, that ever was!" Maria exclaimed; "too mean to live, and too cunning to breathe. She's an old witch!"
"Oh don't, Maria!"
"I will," said Maria. "I will talk. It is the only comfort I have. What is she up to now?"
"Just that," said Matilda. "She found I had been to Lilac Lane, and she said I must not go again without her knowing; and she will never let me go. I needn't ask her. She doesn't like me to go there. And I wanted to do so much! If she could only have waited – only have waited – "
"What made you let her know you had been there?"
"She found out. I couldn't help it. Now she will not let me go ever again. Never, never!"
"What did you want to do in Lilac Lane, Tilly?"
"Oh, things. I wanted to do a great deal. Things. – They'll never be done!" cried Matilda, in bitter distress. "I cannot do them now. I cannot do anything."
"She is as mean as she can live!" said Maria again. "But Tilly, I don't believe Lilac Lane is a good place for you, neither. What did you want to do there? what could you do?"
"Things," said Matilda, indefinitely.
"You are not old enough to go poking about Lilac Lane by yourself."
"I can't go any way," said Matilda.
She cried a long while to wash down this disappointment, and the effects of it did not go off in the tears. The child became very silent and sober. Her duties she did, as she had done them, about the house and in Mrs. Candy's room; but the bright face and the glad ways were gone. In the secret of her private hours Matilda had struggles to go through that left her with the marks of care upon her all the rest of the time.
The next Sunday she was made to go to church with her aunt. She went to her own Sunday-school in the afternoon; but she was not allowed to get off early enough for the reading and talk with Mary and Ailie. Lem Dow, however, was on hand; that was one single drop of comfort. He looked for his sugared almonds and they were on hand too; and besides that, Matilda was able to see that he was quite pleased with the place and the singing and the doings in his class, and making friends with the boys.
"Will you come next Sunday?" Matilda asked him, as they were going out. He nodded.
"Won't Jemima come too, if you ask her?"
"I won't ask her."
"No? why not?"
"I don't want her to come."
"You don't want her to come? Why it is a pleasant place, isn't it?"
"It's a heap more jolly if she ain't here," said Lem, knowingly.
It was a difficult argument to answer, with one whose general benevolence was not very full grown yet. Matilda went home thinking how many people wanted something done for them, and how she could touch nobody. She was not allowed to go to church in the evening.
CHAPTER VI
The days seemed to move slowly. They were such troublesome days to Matilda. From the morning bath, which was simply her detestation, all through the long hours of reading, and patching, and darning in Mrs. Candy's room, the time dragged; and no sooner was dinner over, than she began to dread the next morning again. It was not so much for the cold water as for the relentless hand that applied it. Matilda greatly resented having it applied to her at all by any hand but her own; it was an aggravation that her aunt minded that, and her, no more than if she had been a baby. It was a daily trial, and daily trouble; for Matilda was obliged to conquer herself, and be silent, and submit where her whole soul rose and rebelled. She must not speak her anger, and pleadings were entirely disregarded. So she ran down in the morning when her aunt's bell rang, and was passive under all that Mrs. Candy pleased to inflict; and commanded herself when she wanted to cry for vexation, and was still when words of entreaty or defiance rose to her lips. The sharp lesson of self-control Matilda was learning now. She had to practise it again when she took her hours of needlework. Mrs. Candy was teaching her now to knit, and now to mend lace, and then to make buttonholes; and she required perfection; and Matilda was forced to be very patient, and careful to the extreme of carefulness, and docile when her work was pulled out, and persevering when she was quite tired and longed to go down and help Maria in the kitchen. She was learning useful arts, no doubt, but Matilda did not care for them; all the while the most valuable thing she was learning was the lesson of power over herself. Well if that were all. But there were some things also down in the bottom of Matilda's heart which it was not good to learn; and she knew it; but she did not know very well how to help it.
Several weeks had gone by in this manner, and now June was about over. Matilda had not gone to Lilac Lane again, nor seen Norton, nor made any of her purchases for Mrs. Eldridge. She had almost given all that up. She wondered that she saw nothing of Norton; but if he had ever come to the house she had not heard of it. Matilda was not allowed to go out in the evening now any more. No more Band meetings, or prayer meetings, or church service in the evening for her. And in the morning of Sunday Mrs. Candy was very apt to carry her off to her own church, which Matilda disliked beyond all expression. But she went as quietly as if she had liked it.
Things were in this state, when one evening Maria came up to bed and burst out as soon as she had got into the room, —
"Think of it! They are going to New York to-morrow."
Matilda was bewildered, and asked who was going to New York.
"They. Aunt Erminia and Clarissa. To be gone all day! Hurrah! We'll have just what we like for dinner, and I'll let the kitchen fire go out."
"Are they going down to New York to-morrow?" said Matilda, standing and looking at her sister.
"By the early train. Don't you hear me tell you?"
"I thought it was too good news to be true," said Matilda, drawing a long breath.
"It is, almost; but they are going. They are going to do shopping. That's what it's for. And I say, Matilda, won't we have a great dinner to get!"
"They will want dinner after they get home."
"No, they won't. They will take dinner somehow down there. Why they will not be home, Tilly, till nine o'clock. They can't. The train don't get up till a quarter-past eight, that train they are going to take; and they will have to be an hour pretty near riding up from the station. Hurrah! hurrah!"
"Hush! don't make so much noise. They will hear you."
"No, they won't. They have come up to bed. We are to have breakfast at six o'clock. We shall have all the longer day."
"Then I hope Aunt Candy will not have time to give me my bath."
"No, she won't; she told me to tell you. You are to be ever so early, and help me to get the breakfast. I shall not know what to do with the day, though, I shall want to do so much. That is the worst of it."
Matilda thought she would be under no such difficulty, if only her way were not so hedged in. The things she would have liked to do were forbidden things. She might not go to Lilac Lane; she might not go to Mrs. Laval's. She half expected that her aunt would say she must not go out of the house at all. That misfortune, however, did not happen. The early breakfast and bustle and arrangements for getting off occupied Mrs. Candy so completely that she gave no commands whatever. The omnibus fairly drove away with her, and left Maria and Matilda unrestricted by any new restrictions.
"It seems," said Matilda, gravely, as they stood by the gate, "it seems as if I could see the sky again. I haven't seen it this great while."
"Seen the sky!" said Maria; "what has ailed you? You have gone out often enough."
"It didn't seem as if I could see the sky," said Matilda, gazing up into the living blue depth above her. "I can see it now."
"You are funny," said Maria. "It don't seem to me as if I had seen anything, for weeks. Dear me! to-day will be only too short."
"It is half-past six now," said Matilda. "Between now and nine o'clock to-night there are – let me see; half-past twelve will be six hours, and half-past six will be twelve hours; six, seven, eight, nine, – nine will be two hours and a half more; that will be fourteen and a half hours."
"Fourteen," said Maria, "That half we shall be expecting them."
"Well, we've got to go in and put the house in order, first thing," said Matilda. "Let's make haste."
"Then I'll let the kitchen fire go out," said Maria; "and we'll dine on bread and butter, and cold potatoes. I like cold potatoes; don't you?"
"No," said Matilda; "but I don't care what we have. I'll have bread and butter and cold coffee, Maria; let us save the coffee. That will do."
With these arrangements made, the day began. The two girls flew round in a kind of glee to put the rooms up and get all the work done out of the way. Work was a kind of play that morning. Then they agreed to take their dinner early and dress themselves. Maria was going out after that to see some friends and have some fun, she said. Matilda on her part had a sort of faint hope that to-day, when it would be so opportune, it might happen that Norton Laval would come to see what had become of her. She was almost afraid to go out and lose the chance; though, to be sure, it was only the ghost of a chance. Yet for that ghost of a chance she did linger and wait in the house for an hour or two after Maria had gone out. Then it began to press upon her that her aunt had ordered her to get some strawberries from Mr. Sample's for tea; she was uneasy till it was done, and at last took her hat and her basket and resolved to run round into Butternut Street and get that off her mind.
She was standing in Mr. Sample's shop, patiently waiting until her turn should come to be served, when a hand was laid upon her shoulder.
"How do you do, Tilly? You are grown a stranger."
"O Mr. Richmond!" was Matilda's startled response. And it was more startled than glad.
"What is the matter? you look as if I had frightened you, – almost," said the minister, smiling. Matilda did not say what was the matter.
"Have you been quite well?"
"Yes sir."
"You were not in your place on Sunday."
"No, sir."
And Matilda's tone of voice gave an unconscious commentary upon her very few words.
"And you have not been to take tea with me in a great while."
"No, Mr. Richmond."
"Suppose you come to-day."
"Oh, I cannot, sir."
"Why not? I think you can."
"I don't know whether my aunt would let me."
"We will go and ask her."
"Oh no, sir; she is not at home, Mr. Richmond. She has gone to New York."
"For how long?"
"Only till nine o'clock to-night."
"Then there can be no possible harm in your coming to take tea at the parsonage."
"I don't know whether she would let me," said Matilda, with an evident intimation that the doubt was barrier enough.
"You think she would not like it?"
"I think – perhaps – she would not. Thank you, Mr. Richmond!"
"But, Tilly, I want to talk to you. Have you nothing to say to me?"
"Yes, sir. A great deal," said the child, with the look of slow meditation. The minister considered her for a moment.
"I shall take the decision of the question upon myself, Tilly, and I will make it all right with your aunt. Come to the parsonage, or rather, go to the parsonage; and I will join you there presently. I have half an hour's business first to attend to. You must carry those strawberries home? Very well; then go straight to the parsonage and wait there for me."
And with an encouraging nod and smile, Mr. Richmond walked off. Matilda took her basket home; carried the key of the house door to Maria at Mrs. Trembleton's; and set her face up Butternut Street.
She was very glad; it seemed like getting out of prison; though she was not altogether satisfied in her mind that Mr. Richmond might be able to make it all right with Mrs. Candy. She was obliged to risk that, for Mr. Richmond's invitation had had the force of an injunction. So she took the good of the moment, and turned in at the gate of the parsonage lane with something like a feeling of exultation and triumph. The shadow of the elms was sweet on the road; the smooth quiet of the grounds, railed off from worldly business and care, seemed proper only to the houses of peace which stood upon them. The old creamy-brown church on one side; on the other the pretty new Sunday-school house; in front, at the end of the avenue of elms, the brown door of the parsonage. Matilda felt as if her own life had got away from out of peaceful enclosures; and she walked up the avenue slowly; too slowly for such a young life-traveller. She had no need to knock this time, but just opened the door and went straight to Mr. Richmond's study.
That was peace itself. It was almost too pleasant, to Matilda's fancy. A cool matting was on the floor; the light softened by green hanging blinds; the soft gloom of books, as usual, all about; Mr. Richmond's table, and work materials, and empty chair telling of his habitual occupation; and on his table a jar of beautiful flowers, which some parishioner's careful hand had brought for his pleasure. The room was sweet with geranium and lily odours; and so still and pure-breathed, that the flowers in their depth of colour and wealth of fragrance seemed to speak through the stillness. Matilda did not ask what they said, though maybe she heard. She came a little way into the room, stood still and looked about her a while; and then the child flung herself down on her knees beside a chair and burst into a passion of weeping.
It lasted so long and was so violent that she never heard Mr. Richmond come in. And he on his part was astonished. At the first sound of his voice Matilda stopped crying and let him raise her from the floor; but he did not put her into a chair. Instead of that he sat down himself and drew her to his side. Of course he asked what the matter was. Also, of course, Matilda could not tell him. Mr. Richmond found that out, and then took another road to his object. He let Matilda get quite quiet; gave her a bunch of grapes to eat, while he seemed to busy himself among his books and papers; at last put that down, and took Matilda's plate from her.
"You do not come to church in the evening lately, I observe, Tilly," he remarked.
"No, sir. Aunt Candy does not like me to go."
"And you have not been to the prayer meeting either, or to the meetings of our Commission. The 'Band' is called our 'Christian Commission,' now."
"No, sir." And Matilda's eyes watered.
"For the same reason?"
"Yes, sir."
"Not because you have lost pleasure in such meetings?"
"Oh no, Mr. Richmond! Did you think I had?" she asked, timidly.
"I could not know, you know," said Mr. Richmond, "and I wanted to ask you. I am very glad to hear it is no bad reason that keeps you away."
"I didn't say that, Mr. Richmond," Matilda answered, slowly. "Could it be a good reason?"
"Why, it might," said Mr. Richmond, cheerfully. "You might be not well enough; or you might have more important duties to do at home; or you might be unwilling to come alone; and all those might be good reasons for staying away."
"It was no such reason," said Matilda.
There was silence.
"You wanted to talk to me, you said," Mr. Richmond observed.
"Yes, Mr. Richmond, I do; if I only knew how."
"Is it so difficult? It never used to be very difficult, Matilda."
"No, sir; but things are – different."
"You are not different, are you?"
"I don't know," said Matilda, slowly; "I am afraid so. I feel very different."
"In what way?"
"Mr. Richmond," she went on, still slowly, and as if she were meditating her words, – "I don't see how I can do just right."
"In what respect?" said the minister, very quietly. Again Matilda paused.
"Mr. Richmond, is it always wrong to hate people?"
"What things should make it right for us to hate people?"
"I don't know," said Matilda in the same considering way, "when there isn't the least thing you can love them for, or like them?"
"What if the Lord had gone by that rule in dealing with us?"
"Oh, but He is so good."
"And has commanded us to be just as good, has He not?"
"But can we, Mr. Richmond?"
"What do you think, Tilly, the Lord meant when He gave us the order?"
"He meant we should try."
"Do you think He meant that we should only try? do you think He did not mean that we should be as He said?"
"And love hateful people?"
"What do you think, Tilly?"
"O Mr. Richmond, I think I'm not good."
"What is the matter, my dear child?" Mr. Richmond said tenderly, as Matilda burst into quiet tears again. "What troubles you?"
"That, Mr. Richmond. I'm afraid I am not good, for I am not like that; and I don't see how I can be."
"What is the hindrance? or the difficulty?"
"Because, Mr. Richmond, I am afraid I hate my Aunt Candy."
Mr. Richmond was quite silent, and Matilda sobbed awhile.
"Do I understand you aright?" he said, at last. "Do you say that you hate your aunt?"
"I am afraid I do."
"Why should you hate her? Is she not very kind to you?"
"I do not call her kind," said Matilda.
"In what respect is she not kind?"
The child sobbed again, with the unspoken difficulty; stifled sobs.
"She is not cruel to you?" said Mr. Richmond.
"I think she is cruel," said Matilda; "for she does not in the least care about doing things that I do not like; she does not care at all whether I like them or not. I think she likes it."
"What?"
"Just to do things that I can't bear, Mr. Richmond; and she knows I can't bear them."
"What is her reason for doing these things?"
"I think the greatest reason is because she knows I can't bear them. I think I am growing wicked."
"Is it because you displease her in any way, that she does it for a punishment?"
"I do not displease her in any way," said poor Matilda.
"And yet she likes to grieve you?"
"She said I wanted putting down. And now, I suppose I am put down. I am just in prison. I can't do anything. I can't go to Mrs. Laval's house any more. I must not go to Lilac Lane any more. She won't let me. And O Mr. Richmond, we were going to do such nice things!"
"Who were going to do such nice things?"
"Norton Laval and I."
"What things were they?"
"We were going to do such nice things! Mrs. Laval gave me money for them, and Norton, he has money always; and we were going to have Mrs. Eldridge's house cleaned, and get a bedstead, and towels, and a table, and ever so many things for her, to make her comfortable; and I thought it would be so pleasant to get the things and take them to her. And aunt Candy says I am not to go again."