_A Story of the City Beautiful_
BY
FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
1916
Copyright, 1895, 1897, by
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
_FROM DRAWINGS BY REGINALD B. BIRCH_
PAGE
Their dream had come true, Frontispiece
“Everything in the world,” said Robin, 15
“Aunt Matilda,” she said, suddenly, 35
Meg looked rather like a little witch, 67
“Is this the train to Chicago?” said Robin, 79
“You like a cup coffee?” she asked, 97
“Now we are in Venice,” 111
“Well, Jem!” she exclaimed, 121
He was looking at her in an absent, miserable way, 127
“To—to—the Fair?” he said, tremulously, 141
“Take me with you,” 153
“It’s a queer sight,” she said to John Holt, 195
TWO LITTLE PILGRIMS’ PROGRESS
I
The sun had set, and the shadows were deepening in the big barn. The
last red glow—the very last bit which reached the corner the children
called the Straw Parlor—had died away, and Meg drew her knees up higher,
so as to bring the pages of her book nearer to her eyes as the twilight
deepened, and it became harder to read. It was her bitterest grievance
that this was what always happened when she became most interested and
excited—the light began to fade away, and the shadows to fill all the
corners and close in about her.
She frowned as it happened now—a fierce little frown which knitted her
childish black brows as she pored over her book, devouring the page,
with the determination to seize on as much as was possible. It was like
running a desperate race with the darkness.
She was a determined child, and no one would have failed to guess as
much who could have watched her for a few moments as she sat on her
curious perch, her cheeks supported by her hands, her shock of straight
black hair tumbling over her forehead.
The Straw Parlor was the top of a straw stack in Aunt Matilda’s barn.
Robin had discovered it one day by climbing a ladder which had been left
leaning against the stack, and when he had found himself on the top of
it he had been enchanted by the feeling it gave him of being so high
above the world, and had called Meg up to share it with him.
She had been even more enchanted than he.
They both hated the world down below—Aunt Matilda’s world—which seemed
hideous and exasperating and sordid to them in its contrast to the world
they had lived in before their father and mother had died, and they had
been sent to their sole relation, who did not want them, and only took
them in from respect to public opinion. Three years they had been with
Aunt Matilda, and each week had seemed more unpleasant than the last.
Mrs. Matilda Jennings was a renowned female farmer of Illinois, and she
was far too energetic a manager and business woman to have time to spend
on children. She had an enormous farm, and managed it herself with a
success and ability which made her celebrated in agricultural papers. If
she had not given her dead brother’s children a home, they would have
starved or been sent to the poorhouse. Accordingly, she gave them food
to eat and beds to sleep in, but she scarcely ever had time to notice
them. If she had had time to talk to them, she had nothing to say. She
cared for nothing but crops and new threshing-machines and fertilizers,
and they knew nothing about such things.
“She never says anything but ‘Go to bed,’ ‘Keep out of the way.’ She’s
not like a woman at all,” Meg commented once, “she’s like a man in
woman’s clothes.”
Their father had been rather like a woman in man’s clothes. He was a
gentle, little, slender man, with a large head. He had always been poor,
and Mrs. Matilda Jennings had regarded him as a contemptible failure. He
had had no faculty for business or farming. He had taught school, and
married a school teacher. They had had a small house, but somehow it had
been as cosey as it was tiny. They had managed to surround themselves
with an atmosphere of books, by buying the cheap ones they could afford
and borrowing the expensive ones from friends and circulating libraries.
The twins—Meg and Robin—had heard stories and read books all the first
years of their lives, as they sat in their little seats by the small,
warm fireside. In Aunt Matilda’s bare, cold house there was not a book
to be seen. A few agricultural papers were scattered about. Meals were
hurried over as necessary evils. The few people who appeared on the
scene were farmers, who talked about agricultural implements and the
wheat market.
“It’s such a bare place,” Robin used to say, and he would drive his
hands into the depths of his pockets and set his square little jaw, and
stare before him.
Both the twins had that square little jaw. Neither of them looked like
their father and mother, except that from their mother they inherited
black hair. Robin’s eyes were black, but Meg’s were gray, with thick
black lashes. They were handsome little creatures, but their shocks of
straight black hair, their straight black brows and square little jaws,
made them look curiously unlike other children. They both remembered one
winter evening, when, as they sat on their seat by the fire, their
father, after looking at them with a half smile for a moment or so,
began to laugh.
“Margaret,” he said to their mother, “do you know who those two are
like? You have heard me speak of Matilda often enough.”
“Oh, Robert!” she exclaimed, “surely they are not like Matilda?”
“Well, perhaps it is too much to say they are like her,” he answered,
“but there is something in their faces that reminds me of her strongly.
I don’t know what it is exactly, but it is there. It is a good thing,
perhaps,” with a queer tone in his voice. “Matilda always did what she
made up her mind to do. Matilda was a success. I was always a failure.”
“Ah, no, Bob,” she said, “not a failure!”
She had put her hand on his shoulder, and he lifted it and pressed it
against his thin cheek.
“Wasn’t I, Maggie?” he said, gently, “wasn’t I? Well, I think these two
will be like Matilda in making up their minds and getting what they
want.”
Before the winter was over Robin and Meg were orphans, and were with
Aunt Matilda, and there they had been ever since.
Until the day they found the Straw Parlor it had seemed as if no corner
in the earth belonged to them. Meg slept on a cot in a woman servant’s
room, Robin shared a room with some one else. Nobody took any notice of
them.
“When any one meets us anywhere,” Meg said, “they always look surprised.
Dogs who are not allowed in the house are like us. The only difference
is that they don’t drive us out. But we are just as much in the way.”
“I know,” said Robin; “if it wasn’t for you, Meg, I should run away.”
“Where?” said Meg.
“Somewhere,” said Robin, setting his jaw; “I’d find a place.”
“If it wasn’t for you,” said Meg, “I should be so lonely that I should
walk into the river. I wouldn’t stand it.” It is worth noticing that she
did not say “I _could_ not stand it.”
But after the day they found the Straw Parlor they had an abiding-place.
It was Meg who preëmpted it before she had been on the top of the stack
five minutes. After she had stumbled around, looking about her, she
stopped short, and looked down into the barn.
“Robin,” she said, “this is another world. We are miles and miles away
from Aunt Matilda. Let us make this into our home—just yours and
mine—and live here.”
“We are in nobody’s way—nobody will even know where we are,” said Robin.
“Nobody ever asks, you know. Meg, it will be just like our own. We will
live here.” And so they did. On fine days, when they were tired of
playing, they climbed the ladder to rest on the heap of yellow straw; on
wet days they lay and told each other stories, or built caves, or read
their old favorite books over again. The stack was a very high one, and
the roof seemed like a sort of big tent above their heads, and the barn
floor a wonderful, exaggeratedly long, distance below. The birds who had
nests in the rafters became accustomed to them, and one of the
children’s chief entertainments was to lie and watch the mothers and
fathers carry on their domestic arrangements, feeding their young ones,
and quarrelling a little sometimes about the way to bring them up. The
twins invented a weird little cry, with which they called each other, if
one was in the Straw Parlor and the other one entered the barn, to find
out whether it was occupied or not. They never mounted to the Straw
Parlor, or descended from it, if any one was within sight. This was
their secret. They wanted to feel that it was very high, and far away
from Aunt Matilda’s world, and if any one had known where they were, or
had spoken to them from below, the charm would have been broken.
This afternoon, as Meg pored over her book, she was waiting for Robin.
He had been away all day. At twelve years old Robin was not of a light
mind. When he had been only six years old he had had serious plans. He
had decided that he would be a great inventor. He had also decided—a
little later—that he would not be poor, like his father, but would be
very rich. He had begun by having a savings bank, into which he put
rigorously every penny that was given to him. He had been so quaintly
systematic about it that people were amused, and gave him pennies
instead of candy and toys. He kept a little banking book of his own. If
he had been stingy he would have been a very unpleasant little boy, but
he was only strict with himself. He was capable of taking from his
capital to do the gentlemanly thing by Meg at Christmas.
“He has the spirit of the financier, that is all,” said his father.
Since he had been with Aunt Matilda he had found opportunities to earn a
trifle rather frequently. On the big place there were small, troublesome
duties the farm hands found he could be relied on to do, which they were
willing to pay for. They found out that he never failed them.
“Smart little chap,” they said; “always up to time when he undertakes a
thing.”
To-day he had been steadily at work under the head man. Aunt Matilda had
no objection to his odd jobs.
“He has his living to earn, and he may as well begin,” she said.
So Meg had been alone since morning. She had only one duty to perform,
and then she was free. The first spring they had been with Aunt Matilda
Robin had invested in a few chickens, and their rigorous care of them
had resulted in such success that the chickens had become a sort of
centre of existence to them. They could always have any dreams of the
future upon the fortune to be gained by chickens. You could calculate on
bits of paper about chickens and eggs until your head whirled at the
magnitude of your prospects. Meg’s duty was to feed them, and show them
scrupulous attentions when Robin was away.
After she had attended to them she went to the barn, and, finding it
empty, climbed up to the Straw Parlor with an old “Pilgrim’s Progress,”
to spend the day.
This afternoon, when the light began to redden and then to die away, she
and Christian were very near the gates. She longed so to go in with him,
and was yearning towards them with breathless eagerness, when she heard
Robin’s cry below, coming up from the barn floor.
She sprang up with a start, feeling bewildered a second, before she
answered. The City Beautiful was such millions—such millions of miles
away from Aunt Matilda’s barn. She found herself breathing quickly and
rubbing her eyes, as she heard Robin hurrying up the ladder.
Somehow she felt as if he was rather in a hurry, and when his small,
black shock head and wide-awake black eyes appeared above the straw she
had a vague feeling that he was excited, and that he had come from
another world. He clambered on to the stack and made his way to her, and
threw himself full length on the straw at her side.
“Meg!” he said—“Hallo, you look as if you were in a dream! Wake
up!—Jones and Jerry are coming to the barn—I hurried to get here before
them; they’re talking about something I want you to hear—something new!
Wake up!”
“Oh, Robin!” said Meg, clutching her book and coming back to earth with
a sigh, “I don’t want to hear Jones and Jerry. I don’t want to hear any
of the people down there. I’ve been reading the ‘Pilgrim’s Progress,’
and I do wish—I do so _wish_ there _was_ a City Beautiful.”
Robin gave a queer little laugh. He really was excited.
“There is going to be one,” he said. “Jones and Jerry don’t really know
it, but it is something like that they are talking about; a City
Beautiful—a real one—on this earth, and not a hundred miles away. Let’s
get near the edge and listen.”