  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.” “AUNT MATILDA,” SHE SAID, SUDDENLY. “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, ma’am,” said Meg, and she turned round and walked away in the direction of the dairy, with two deep red spots on her cheeks and her heart thumping again—though this time it thumped quickly. She reached the scene of action in the midst of a rush of work, and after their first rather exasperated surprise at so immature and inexperienced a creature being supposed to be able to help them, the women found plenty for her to do. She said so few words and looked so little afraid that she made a sort of impression on them. “See,” she said to the head woman, “Aunt Matilda didn’t send me to do things that need teaching. Just tell me the little things, it does not matter what, and I’ll do them. I can.” How she worked that morning—how she ran on errands—how she carried this and that—how she washed and scrubbed milk-pans—and how all her tasks were menial and apparently trivial, though entirely necessary, and how the activity and rapidity and unceasingness of them tried her unaccustomed young body, and finally made her limbs ache and her back feel as if it might break at some unexpected moment, Meg never forgot. But such was the desperation of her indomitable little spirit and the unconquerable will she had been born with, that when it was over she was no more in the mood for giving up than she had been when she walked in among the workers after her interview with Aunt Matilda. When dinner-time came she walked up to Mrs. Macartney, the manager of the dairy work, and asked her a question. “Have I helped you?” she said. “Yes, you have,” said the woman, who was by no means an ill-natured creature for a hard-driven woman. “You’ve done first-rate.” “Will you tell Aunt Matilda that?” said Meg. “Yes,” was the answer. Meg was standing with her hands clasped tightly behind her back, and she looked at Mrs. Macartney very straight and hard from under her black brows. “Mrs. Macartney,” she said, “if I’m worth it, Aunt Matilda will give me a dollar a week; and it’s time I began to work for my living. Am I worth that much?” “Yes, you are,” said Mrs. Macartney, “if you go on as you’ve begun.” “I shall go on as I’ve begun,” said Meg. “Thank you, ma’am,” and she walked back to the house. After dinner she waited to speak to Aunt Matilda again. “I went to the dairy,” she said. “I know you did,” Aunt Matilda answered. “Mrs. Macartney told me about it. You can go on. I’ll give you the dollar a week.” She looked the child over again, as she had done in the morning, but with a shade of expression which might have meant a touch of added interest. Perhaps her mind paused just long enough to bring back to her the time when she had been a worker at twelve years old, and also had belonged to no one. “She’ll make her living,” she said, as she watched Meg out of the room. “She’s more like me than she is like her father. Robert wasn’t worthless, but he had no push.” Having made quite sure that she was not wanted in the dairy for the time being, Meg made her way to the barn. She was glad to find it empty, so that she could climb the ladder without waiting. When she reached the top and clambered over the straw the scent of it seemed delightful to her. It was like something welcoming her home. She threw herself down full length in the Straw Parlor. Robin had not been at dinner. He had gone out early and had not returned. As she lay, stretching her tired limbs, and staring up at the nest in the dark, tent-like roof above her, she hoped he would come. And he did. In about ten minutes she heard the signal from the barn floor, and answered it. Robin came up the ladder rather slowly. When he made his way over the straw to her corner, and threw himself down beside her, she saw that he was tired too. They talked a few minutes about ordinary things, and then Meg thought she would tell him about the dairy. But it appeared that he had something to tell himself, and he began first. “I’ve been making a plan, Meg,” he said. “Have you?” said Meg. “What is it?” “I’ve been thinking about it for two or three days,” he went on, “but I thought I wouldn’t say anything about it until—till I tried how it would work.” Meg raised herself on her elbow and looked at him curiously. It seemed so queer that he should have had a plan too. “Have you—tried?” she said. “Yes,” he answered, “I have been working for Jones this morning, and I did quite a lot. I worked hard. I wanted him to see what I could do. And then, Meg, I asked him if he would take me on—like the rest of the hands—and pay me what I was worth.” “And what did he say?” breathlessly. “He looked at me a minute—all over—and half laughed, and I thought he was going to say I wasn’t worth anything. It wouldn’t have been true, but I thought he might, because I’m only twelve years old. It’s pretty hard to be only twelve when you want to get work. But he didn’t, he said, ‘Well, I’m darned if I won’t give you a show;’ and I’m to have a dollar a week.” “Robin,” Meg cried, with a little gasp of excitement, “so am I!” “So are you!” cried Robin, and sat bolt upright. “You!” “It’s—it’s because we are twins,” said Meg, her eyes shining like lamps. “I told you twins did things alike because they couldn’t help it. We have both thought of the same thing. I went to Aunt Matilda, asked her to let me work somewhere and pay me, and she let me go into the dairy and try, and Mrs. Macartney said I was a help, and I am to have a dollar a week, if I go on as I’ve begun.” Robin’s hand gave hers a clutch, just as it had done before, that day when he had not known why. “Meg, I believe,” he said, “I believe that we two will always go on as we begin. I believe we were born that way. We have to, we can’t help it. And two dollars a week, if they keep us, and we save it all—we could go almost anywhere—sometime.” Meg’s eyes were fixed on him with a searching, but half frightened expression. “Almost anywhere,” she said, quite in a whisper. “Anywhere not more than a hundred miles away.” |
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