Two Little Pilgrims' Progress. Burnett Frances Hodgson

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СКАЧАТЬ hadn’t. If they hadn’t, perhaps – perhaps if we made burnt offerings, we might be taken by a miracle to see the World’s Fair.”

      “We haven’t anything to burn,” said Rob, rather gloomily.

      “We’ve got the chickens,” Meg answered as gloomily, “but it wouldn’t do any good. Miracles are over.”

      “The world is all different,” said Robin. “You have to do your miracle yourself.”

      “It will be a miracle,” Meg said, “if we ever get away from Aunt Matilda’s world, and live like people instead of like pigs who are comfortable – and we shall have to perform it ourselves.”

      “There is no one else,” said Robin. “You see, there is no one else in the world.”

      He threw out his hand and it clutched Meg’s, which was lying in the straw near him. He did not know why he clutched it – he did not in the least know why; nor did she know why a queer sound in his voice suddenly made her feel their unfriendedness in a way that overwhelmed her. She found herself looking at him, with a hard lump rising in her throat. It was one of the rainy days, and the hollow drumming and patter of the big drops on the roof seemed somehow to shut them in with their loneliness away from all the world.

      “It’s a strange thing,” she said, almost under her breath, “to be two children, only just twelve years old, and to be quite by ourselves in such a big world, where there are such millions and millions of people all busy doing things and making great plans, and none of them knowing about us, or caring what we are going to do.”

      “If we work our miracle ourselves,” said Rob, holding her hand quite tight, “it will be better than having it worked for us. Meg!” – as if he were beginning a new subject – “Meg!”

      “What?” she answered, still feeling the hard lump in her throat.

      “Do you think we are going to stay here always?”

      “I – oh, Robin, I don’t know.”

      “Well, I do, then. We are not– and that’s the first step up the Hill of Difficulty.”

      IV

      All their lives the children had acted in unison. When they had been tiny creatures they had played the same games and used the same toys. It had seemed of little importance that their belongings were those of a boy and girl. When Robin had played with tops and marbles, Meg had played with them too. When Meg had been in a domestic and maternal mood, and had turned to dolls and dolls’ housekeeping, Robin had assumed some masculine rôle connected with the amusement. It had entertained him as much at times to be the dolls’ doctor, or the carpenter who repaired the dolls’ furniture or made plans for the enlargement of the dolls’ house, as it had entertained Meg to sew the flags and dress the sailors who manned his miniature ships, and assist him with the tails of his kites. They had had few playmates, and had pleased each other far better than outsiders could have done.

      “It’s because we are twins,” Meg said. “Twins are made alike, and so they like the same things. I’m glad I’m a twin. If I had to be born again and be an un-twin I’m sure I should be lonely.”

      “I don’t think it matters whether you are a boy or a girl, if you are a twin,” said Robin. “You are part of the other one, and so it’s as if you were both.”

      They had never had secrets from each other. They had read the same books as they grew older, been thrilled by the same stories, and shared in each other’s plans and imaginings or depressions. So it was a curious thing that at this special time, when they were drawn nearest to one another by an unusual interest and sympathy, there should have arrived a morning when each rose with a thought unshared by the other.

      Aunt Matilda was very busy that day. She was always busy, but this morning seemed more actively occupied than usual. She never appeared to sit down, unless to dispose of a hurried meal or go over some accounts. She was a wonderful woman, and the twins knew that the most objectionable thing they could do was not to remove themselves after a repast was over; but this morning Meg walked over to a chair and firmly sat down in it, and watched her as she vigorously moved things about, rubbed dust off them, and put them in their right places.

      Meg’s eyes were fixed on her very steadily. She wondered if it was true that she and Robin were like her, and if they would be more like her when they had reached her age, and what would have happened to them before that time came. It was true that Aunt Matilda had a square jaw also. It was not an encouraging thing to contemplate; in fact, as she looked at her, Meg felt her heart begin a slow and steady thumping. But, as it thumped, she was getting herself in hand with such determination that when she at last spoke her chin looked very square indeed, and her black-lashed eyes were as nearly stern as a child’s eyes can look.

      “Aunt Matilda,” she said, suddenly.

      “Well?” and a tablecloth was whisked off and shaken.

      “I want to talk to you.”

      “Talk in a hurry, then. I’ve no time to waste in talk.”

      “How old were you when you began to work and make money?”

      Aunt Matilda smiled grimly.

      “I worked out for my board when I was ten years old,” she said. “Me and your father were left orphans, and we had to work, or starve. When I was twelve I got a place to wash dishes and look after children and run errands, and I got a dollar a week because it was out in the country, and girls wouldn’t stay there.”

      “Do you know how old I am?” asked Meg.

      “I’ve forgotten.”

      “I’m twelve years old.” She got up from her chair and walked across the room and stood looking up at Aunt Matilda. “I’m an orphan too, and so is Robin,” she said, “and we have to work. You give us a place to stay in; but – there are other things. We have no one, and we have to do things ourselves; and we are twelve, and twelve is a good age for people who have to do things for themselves. Is there anything in this house or in the dairy or on the farm that would be worth wages, that I could do? I don’t care how hard it is if I can do it.”

      If Aunt Matilda had been a woman of sentiment she might have been moved by the odd, unchildish tenseness and sternness of the little figure, and the straight-gazing eyes, which looked up at her from under the thick black hair tumbling in short locks over the forehead. Twelve years old was very young to stand and stare the world in the face with such eyes. But she was not a woman of sentiment, and her life had been spent among people who knew their right to live could only be won by hard work, and who began the fight early. So she looked at the child without any emotion whatever.

      “Do you suppose you could more than earn your bread if I put you in the dairy and let you help there?” she said.

      “Yes,” answered Meg, unflinchingly, “I know I could. I’m strong for my age, and I’ve watched them doing things there. I can wash pans and bowls and cloths, and carry things about, and go anywhere I’m told. I know how clean things have to be kept.”

      “Well,” said Aunt Matilda, looking her over sharply, “they’ve been complaining about the work being too much for them, lately. You go in there this morning and see what you can do. You shall have a dollar a week if you’re worth it. You’re right about its being time that you should begin earning something.”

      “Thank you, СКАЧАТЬ