Фрэнсис Элиза Ходжсон Бёрнетт
Two Little Pilgrims' Progress
VII
And the cold days of hard work kept going by, and the City Beautiful grew, and, huddled close together in the straw, the children planned and dreamed, and read and re-read the “Pilgrim’s Progress,” following Christian step by step. And Aunt Matilda became busier every day, it seemed, and did not remember that they were alive except when she saw them. And nobody guessed and nobody knew.
Days so quickly grow to weeks, and weeks slip by so easily until they are months, and at last there came a time when Meg, going out in the morning, felt a softer air, and stopped a moment by a bare tree to breathe it in and feel its lovely touch upon her cheek. She turned her face upward with a half-involuntary movement, and found herself looking at such a limitless vault of tender blueness that her heart gave a quick throb, seemed to spring up to it, and carry her with it. For a moment it seemed as if she had left the earth far below, and was soaring in the soft depths of blueness themselves. And suddenly, even as she felt it, she heard on the topmost branch of the bare tree a brief little rapturous trill, and her heart gave a leap again, and she felt her cheeks grow warm.
“It is a bluebird,” she said; “it is a bluebird. And it is the spring, and that means that the time is quite near.”
She had a queer little smile on her face all day as she worked. She did not know it was there herself, but Mrs. Macartney saw it.
“What’s pleasing you so, Meggy, my girl?” she asked.
Meg wakened up with a sort of start.
“I don’t know – exactly,” she said.
“You don’t know,” said the woman, good-naturedly. “You look as if you were thinking over a secret, and it was a pleasant one.”
That evening it was not cold when they sat in the Straw Parlor, and Meg told Robin about the bluebird.
“It gave me a strange feeling to hear it,” she said. “It seemed as if it was speaking to me. It said, ‘You must get ready. It is quite near.’”
They had made up their minds that they would go in June, before the weather became so hot that they might suffer from it.
“Because we have to consider everything,” was Robin’s idea. “We shall be walking about all the time, and we have no cool clothes, and we shall have no money to buy cool things; and if we should be ill, it would be worse for us than for children who have some one with them.”
In the little account-book they had calculated all they should own on the day their pilgrimage began. They had apportioned it all out: so much for the price of the railroad tickets, so much for entrance fees, and – not so much, but so little – oh, so little! – for their food and lodging.
“I have listened when Jones and the others were talking,” said Robin; “and they say that everybody who has room to spare, and wants to make money, is going to let every corner they have. So you see there will be sure to be people who have quite poor places that they would be obliged to rent cheap to people who are poor, like themselves. We will go through the small side streets and look.”
The first bluebird came again, day after day, and others came with it, until the swift dart of blue wings through the air and the delicious ripple of joyous sound were no longer rare things. The days grew warmer, and the men threw off their coats, and began to draw their shirt-sleeves across their foreheads when they were at work.
One evening when Robin came up into the Straw Parlor he brought something with him. It was a battered old tin coffee-pot.
“What is that for?” asked Meg; for he seemed to carry it as if it was of some value.
“It’s old and rusty, but there are no holes in it,” Robin answered. “I saw it lying in a fence corner, where some one had thrown it – perhaps a tramp. And it put a new thought into my head. It will do to boil eggs in.”
“Eggs!” said Meg.
“There’s nothing much nicer than hard-boiled eggs,” said Robin, “and you can carry them about with you. It just came into my mind that we could take some of our eggs, and go somewhere where no one would be likely to see us, and build a fire of sticks, and boil some eggs, and carry them with us to eat.”
“Robin,” cried Meg, with admiring ecstasy, “I wish I had thought of that!”
“It doesn’t matter which of us thought of it,” said Rob, “it’s all the same.”
So it was decided that when the time came they should boil their supply of eggs very hard, and roll them up in pieces of paper and tuck them away carefully in the one small bag which was to carry all their necessary belongings. These belongings would be very few – just enough to keep them decent and clean, and a brush and comb between them. They used to lie in bed at night, with beating hearts, thinking it all over, sometimes awakening in a cold perspiration from a dreadful dream, in which Aunt Matilda or Jones or some of the hands had discovered their secret and confronted them with it in all its daring. They were so full of it night and day that Meg used to wonder that the people about them did not see it in their faces.
“They are not thinking of us,” said Robin. “They are thinking about crops. I dare say Aunt Matilda would like to see the Agricultural Building, but she couldn’t waste the time to go through the others.”
Oh, what a day it was, what a thrilling, exciting, almost unbearably joyful day, when Robin gathered sticks and dried bits of branches, and piled them in a corner of a field far enough from the house and outbuildings to be quite safe! He did it one noon hour, and as he passed Meg on his way back to his work, he whispered:
“I have got the sticks for the fire all ready.”
And after supper they crept out to the place, with matches, and the battered old coffee-pot, and the eggs.
As they made their preparations, they found themselves talking in whispers, though there was not the least chance of any one’s hearing them. Meg looked rather like a little witch as she stood over the bubbling old pot, with her strange, little dark face and shining eyes and black elf locks.
“It’s like making a kind of sacrifice on an altar,” she said.
“You always think queer things about everything, don’t you?” said Robin. “But they’re all right; I don’t think of them myself, but I like them.”
When the eggs were boiled hard enough they carried them to the barn and hid them in the Straw Parlor, near the Treasure. Then they sat and talked, in whispers still, almost trembling with joy.
“Somehow, do you know,” Meg said, “it feels as if we were going to do something more than just go to the Fair. When people in stories go to seek their fortunes, I’m sure they feel like this. Does it give you a kind of creeping in your stomach whenever you think of it, Rob?”
“Yes, it does,” Robin whispered back; “and when it comes into my mind suddenly something gives a queer jump inside me.”
“That’s your heart,” said Meg. “Robin, if anything should stop us, I believe I should drop dead.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” was Rob’s answer, “but it’s better not to let ourselves think about it. And I don’t believe anything as bad as that could happen. We’ve worked so hard, and we have nobody but ourselves, and it can’t do any one any harm – and we don’t want to do any one any harm. No, there must be something that wouldn’t let it be.”
“I believe that too,” said Meg, and this time it was she who clutched at Robin’s hand; but he seemed glad she did, and held as close as she.
And then, after the bluebirds had sung a few times more, there came a night when Meg crept out of her cot after she was sure that the woman in the other bed was sleeping heavily enough. Every one went to bed early, and every one slept through the night in heavy, tired sleep. Too much work was done on the place to allow people to waste time in sleeplessness. Meg knew no one would waken as she crept down stairs to the lower part of the house and softly opened the back door.
Robin was standing outside, with the little leather satchel in his hand. It was a soft, warm night, and the dark blue sky was full of the glitter of stars.
Both he and Meg stood still a moment, and looked up. “I’m glad it’s like this,” Meg said; “it doesn’t seem so lonely. Is your heart thumping, Robin?”
“Yes, rather,” whispered Robin. “I left the letter in a place where Aunt Matilda will be likely to find it some time to-morrow.”
“What did you say?” Meg whispered back.
“What I told you I was going to. There wasn’t much to say. Just told her we had saved our money, and gone away for a few days; and we were all right, and she needn’t worry.”
Everything was very still about them. There was no moon, and, but for the stars, it would have been very dark. As it was, the stillness of night and sleep, and the sombreness of the hour, might have made less strong little creatures feel timid and alone.
“Let us take hold of each other’s hands as we walk along,” said Meg. “It will make us feel nearer, and – and twinner.”
And so, hand in hand, they went out on the road together.
VIII
It was four miles to the dépôt, but they were good walkers. Robin hung the satchel on a stick over his shoulder; they kept in the middle of the road and walked smartly. There were not many trees, but there were a few, occasionally, and it was pleasanter to walk where the way before them was quite clear. And somehow they found themselves still talking in whispers, though there was certainly no one to overhear them.
“Let us talk about Christian,” said Meg. “It will not seem so lonely if we are talking. I wish we could meet Evangelist.”
“If we knew he was Evangelist when we met him,” said Robin. “If we didn’t know him, we should think he was some one who would stop us. And after all, you see, he only showed Christian the shining light, and told him to go to it. And we are farther on than that. We have passed the Wicket Gate.”
“The thing we want,” said Meg, “is the Roll to read as we go on, and find out what we are to do.”
And then they talked of what was before them. They wondered who would be at the little dépôt and if they would be noticed, and of what the ticket-agent would think when Robin bought the tickets.
“Perhaps he won’t notice me at all,” said Rob. “And he does not know me. Somebody might be sending us alone, you know. We are not little children.”
“That’s true,” responded Meg, courageously. “If we were six years old it would be different. But we are twelve!”
It did make it seem less lonely to be talking, and so they did not stop. And there was so much to say.
“Robin,” broke forth Meg once, giving his hand a sudden clutch, “we are on the way – we are going. Soon we shall be in the train and it will be carrying us nearer and nearer. Suppose it was a dream, and we should wake up!”
“It isn’t a dream!” said Rob, stoutly. “It’s real – it’s as real as Aunt Matilda!” He was always more practical-minded than Meg.
“We needn’t philander any more,” Meg said.
“It isn’t philandering to talk about a real thing.”
“Oh, Rob, just think of it – waiting for us under the stars, this very moment – the City Beautiful!”
And then, walking close to each other in the dimness, they told each other how they saw it in imagination, and what its wonders would be to them, and which they would see first, and how they would remember it all their lives afterwards, and have things to talk of and think of. Very few people would see it as they would, but they did not know that. It was not a gigantic enterprise to them, a great scheme fought for and struggled over for the divers reasons poor humanity makes for itself; that it would either make or lose money was not a side of the question that reached them. They only dwelt on the beauty and wonder of it, which made it seem like an enchanted thing.
“I keep thinking of the white palaces, and that it is like a fairy story,” Meg said, “and that it will melt away like those cities travellers sometimes see in the desert. And I wish it wouldn’t. But it will have been real for a while, and everybody will remember it. I am so glad it is beautiful – and white. I am so glad it is white, Robin!”
“And I keep thinking,” said Robin, “of all the people who have made the things to go in it, and how they have worked and invented. There have been some people, perhaps, who have worked months and months making one single thing – just as we have worked to go to see it. And perhaps, at first they were afraid they couldn’t do it, and they set their minds to it as we did, and tried and tried, and then did it at last. I like to think of those men and women, Meg, because, when the City has melted away, the things won’t melt. They will last after the people. And we are people too. I’m a man, and you are a woman, you know, though we are only twelve, and it gives me a strong feeling to think of those others.”
“It makes you think that perhaps men and women can do anything if they set their minds to it,” said Meg, quite solemnly. “Oh, I do like that!”
“I like it better than anything else in the world,” said Rob. “Stop a minute, Meg. Come here in the shade.”
He said the last words quickly, and pulled her to the roadside, where a big tree grew which threw a deep shadow. He stood listening.
“It’s wheels!” he whispered. “There is a buggy coming. We mustn’t let any one see us.”
It was a buggy, they could tell that by the lightness of the wheels, and it was coming rapidly. They could hear voices – men’s voices – and they drew back and stood very close to each other.
“Do you think they have found out, and sent some one after us?” whispered Meg, breathlessly.
“No,” answered Robin, though his heart beat like a triphammer. “No, no, no.”
The wheels drew nearer, and they heard one of the men speaking.
“Chicago by sunrise,” he was saying, “and what I don’t see of it won’t be worth seeing.”
The next minute the fast-trotting horse spun swiftly down the road, and carried the voices out of hearing. Meg and Robin drew twin sighs of relief. Robin spoke first.
“It is some one who is going to the Fair,” he said.
“Perhaps we shall see him in the train,” said Meg.
“I dare say we shall,” said Robin. “It was nobody who knows us. I didn’t know his voice. Meg, let’s take hands again, and walk quickly; we might lose the train.”
They did not talk much more, but walked briskly. They had done a good day’s work before they set out, and were rather tired, but they did not lag on that account. Sometimes Meg took a turn at carrying the satchel, so that Robin might rest his arm. It was not heavy, and she was as strong for a girl as he was for a boy.
At last they reached the dépôt. There were a number of people waiting on the platform to catch the train to Chicago, and there were several vehicles outside. They passed one which was a buggy, and Meg gave Robin a nudge with her elbow.
“Perhaps that belongs to our man,” she said.
There were people enough before the office to give the ticket-agent plenty to do. Robin’s heart quickened a little as he passed by with the group of maturer people, but no one seemed to observe him particularly, and he returned to Meg with the precious bits of pasteboard held very tight in his hand.
Meg had waited alone in an unlighted corner, and when she saw him coming she came forward to meet him.
“Have you got them?” she said. “Did any one look at you or say anything?”
“Yes, I got them,” Robin answered. “And, I’ll tell you what, Meg, these people are nearly all going just where we are going, and they are so busy thinking about it, and attending to themselves, that they haven’t any time to watch any one else. That’s one good thing.”
“And the nearer we get to Chicago,” Meg said, “the more people there will be, and the more they will have to think of. And at that beautiful place, where there is so much to see, who will look at two children? I don’t believe we shall have any trouble at all.”
It really did not seem likely that they would, but it happened, by a curious coincidence, that within a very few minutes they saw somebody looking at them.
The train was not due for ten minutes, and there were a few people who, being too restless to sit in the waiting-rooms, walked up and down on the platform. Most of these were men, and there were two men who walked farther than the others did, and so neared the place where Robin and Meg stood in the shadow. One was a young man, and seemed to be listening to instructions his companion, who was older, was giving him, in a rapid, abrupt sort of voice. This companion, who might have been his employer, was a man of middle age. He was robust of figure and had a clean-cut face, with a certain effect of strong good looks. It was, perhaps, rather a hard face, but it was a face one would look at more than once; and he too, oddly enough, had a square jaw and straight black brows. But it was his voice which first attracted Robin and Meg as he neared them, talking.
“It’s the man in the buggy,” whispered Robin. “Don’t you know his voice again?” and they watched him with deep interest.
He passed them once, without seeming to see them at all. He was explaining something to his companion. The second time he drew near he chanced to look up, and his eye fell on them. It did not rest on them more than a second, and he went on speaking. The next time he neared their part of the platform he turned his glance towards them, as they stood close together. It was as if involuntarily he glanced to see if they were still where they had been before.
“A pair of children,” they heard him say, as if the fleeting impression of their presence arrested his train of thought for a second. “Look as if no one was with them.”
He merely made the comment in passing, and returned to his subject the next second; but Meg and Robin heard him, and drew farther back into the shadow.
But it was not necessary to stand there much longer. They heard a familiar sound in the distance, the shrill cry of the incoming train – the beloved giant who was to carry them to fairyland; the people began to flock out of the waiting-rooms with packages and valises and umbrellas in hand; the porters suddenly became alert, and hurried about attending to their duties; the delightful roar drew nearer and louder, and began to shake the earth; it grew louder still, a bell began to make a cheerful tolling, people were rushing to and fro; Meg and Robin rushed with them, and the train was panting in the dépôt.
It was even more thrilling than the children had thought it would be. They had travelled so very little, and did not know exactly where to go. It might not be the right train even. They did not know how long it would wait. It might rush away again before they could get on. People seemed in such a hurry and so excited. As they hurried along they found themselves being pushed and jostled, before the steps of one of the cars a conductor stood, whom people kept showing tickets to. There were several persons round him when Robin and Meg reached the place where he stood. People kept asking him things, and sometimes he passed them on, and sometimes let them go into his car.
“Is this the train to Chicago?” said Robin, breathlessly.
But he was so much less than the other people, and the man was so busy, he did not hear him.
Robin tried to get nearer.
“Is this the Chicago train, sir?” he said, a little louder.
He had had to press by a man whom he had been too excited to see, and the man looked down, and spoke to him.
“Chicago train?” he said, in a voice which was abrupt, without being ill-natured. “Yes, you’re all right. Got your sleeping tickets?”
Robin looked up at him quickly. He knew the voice, and was vaguely glad to hear it. He and Meg had never been in a sleeping-car in their lives, and he did not quite understand. He held out his tickets.
“We are going to sleep on the train,” he said; “but we have nothing but these.”
“Next car but two, then,” he said; “and you’d better hurry.”
And when both voices thanked him at once, and the two caught each other’s hands and ran towards their car, he looked after them and laughed.
“I’m blessed if they’re not by themselves,” he said, watching them as they scrambled up the steps. “And they’re going to the Fair, I’ll bet a dollar. That’s Young America, and no mistake!”