Part 6

“Was he the strongest of all?” asked Robin, taking up the story again with interest.

“I don’t know,” Meg answered; “sometimes I think he was. He was strong—he was very strong.”

They had been too deeply plunged into their mood to notice a man who stood near them, looking at a large picture. In fact, the man himself had not at first noticed them, but when Meg began to speak her voice attracted him. He turned his head, and looked at her odd little reflecting face, and, after having looked at it, he stood listening to her. An expression of recognition came into his strong, clean-shaven face.

“You two again!” he said, when she had finished. “And you have got here.” It was their man again.

“Yes,” answered Meg, her gray eyes revealing, as she lifted them to his face, that she came back to earth with some difficulty.

“How do you like it, as far as you’ve gone?” he asked.

“We are making believe that it is a fairy story,” Meg answered; “and it’s very easy.”

And then a group of people came between and separated them.

XII

How tired they were when they came out from the world of pictures into the world of thronging people! How their limbs ached and they were brought back to the realization that they were creatures with human bodies, which somehow they seemed to have forgotten!

When they stood in the sunshine again Robin drew a long breath.

“It is like coming out of one dream into another,” he said. “We must have been there a long time. I didn’t know I was tired and I didn’t know I was hungry, but I am both. Are you?”

She was as tired and hungry as he was.

“Dare we buy a sandwich to eat with our eggs?” she said.

“Yes, I think we dare,” Robin answered. “Where shall we go and eat them?”

There was no difficulty in deciding. She had planned it all out, and they so knew the place by heart that they did not need to ask their way. It was over one of the fairy bridges which led to a fairy island. It was softly wooded, and among the trees were winding paths and flowers and rustic seats, and quaint roofs peering above the greenness of branches. And it was full of the warm scent of roses, growing together in sumptuous thousands, their heavy, sweet heads uplifted to the sun, or nodding and leaning towards their neighbors’ clusters.

The fairy bridge linked it to the wonderful world beyond, but by comparison its bowers were almost quiet. The crowd did not jostle there.

“And we shall be eating our lunch near thousands and thousands of roses. It will be like the ‘Arabian Nights.’ Let us pretend that the rose who is queen of them all invited us, because we belong to nobody,” Meg said.

They bought the modest addition to their meal, and carried the necessary, ever-present satchel to their bower. They were tired of dragging the satchel about, but they were afraid to lose sight of it.

“It’s very well that it is such a small one, and that we have so little in it,” Robin said. They chose the most secluded corner they could find, as near to the rose garden as possible, and sat down and fell upon their scant lunch as they had fallen upon their breakfast.

It was very scant for two ravenously hungry children, and they tried to make it last as long as possible. But scant as it was, and tired as they were, their spirits did not fail them.

“Perhaps, if we eat it slowly, it will seem more,” said Meg, peeling an egg with deliberation, but with a very undeliberate feeling in her small stomach. “Robin, did you notice our man?”

“I saw him, of course,” answered Robin; “he’s too big not to see.”

“I _noticed_ him,” continued Meg. “Robin, there’s something the matter with that man. He’s a gloomy man.”

“Well, you noticed him quickly,” Robin responded, with a shade of fraternal incredulity. “What’s happened to him?”

Meg’s eyes fixed themselves on a glimpse of blue water she saw through the trees. She looked as if she were thinking the matter over.

“How do I know?” she said; “I couldn’t. But, somehow, he has a dreary face, as if he had been thinking of dreary things. I don’t know why I thought that all in a minute, but I did, and I believe it’s true.”

“Well, if we should see him again,” Robin said, “I’ll look and see.”

“I believe we shall see him again,” said Meg. “How many eggs have we left, Robin?”

“We only brought three dozen,” he answered, looking into the satchel; “and we ate seven this morning.”

“When you have nothing but eggs, you eat a good many,” said Meg, reflectively. “They won’t last very long. But we couldn’t have carried a thousand eggs, even if we had had them”—which was a sage remark.

“We shall have to buy some cheap things,” was Robin’s calculation. “They’ll have to be very cheap, though. We have to pay a dollar, you know, every day, to come in; and if we have no money we can’t go into the places that are not free; and we want to go into everything.”

“I’d rather go in hungry than stay outside and have real dinners, wouldn’t you?” Meg put it to him.

“Yes, I would,” he answered, “though it’s pretty hard to be hungry.”

They had chosen a secluded corner to sit in, but it was not so secluded that they had it entirely to themselves. At a short distance from them, in the nearest bowery nook, a young man and woman were eating something out of a basket. They looked like a young country pair, plain and awkward, and enjoying themselves immensely. Their clothes were common and their faces were tanned, as if from working out of doors. But their basket evidently contained good, home-made things to eat. Meg caught glimpses of ham and chicken, and something that looked like cake. Just at that moment they looked so desperately good that she turned away her eyes, because she did not want to stare at them rudely. And as she averted them, she saw that Robin had seen, too.

“Those people have plenty to eat,” he said, with a short, awkward laugh.

“Yes,” she answered. “Don’t let us look. We are _here_, Robin, anyway, and we knew we couldn’t come as other people do.”

“Yes,” he said, “we are _here_.”

The man and his wife finished their lunch, and began putting things in order in their basket. As they did it, they talked together in a low voice, and seemed to be discussing something. Somehow, in spite of her averted eyes, Meg suddenly felt as if they were discussing Robin and herself, and she wondered if they had caught her involuntary look.

“I think, Robin,” said Meg—“I think that woman is going to speak to us.”

It was evident that she was. She got up and came towards them, her husband following her rather awkwardly.

She stopped before them, and the two pairs of dark eyes lifted themselves to her face.

“I’ve just been talking to my man about you two,” she said. “We couldn’t help looking at you. Have you lost your friends?”

“No, ma’am,” said Robin, “we haven’t got any; I mean, we’re not with any one.”

The woman turned and looked at her husband.

“Well, Jem!” she exclaimed.

The man drew near and looked them over.

He was a raw-boned, big young man, with a countrified, good-natured face.

“You haven’t come here alone?” he said.

“Yes,” said Robin. “We couldn’t have come, if we hadn’t come alone. We’re not afraid, thank you. We’re getting along very well.”

“Well, Jem!” said the woman again.

She seemed quite stirred. There was something in her ordinary, good-natured face that was quite like a sort of rough emotion.

“Have you plenty of money?” she asked.

“No,” said Robin, “not plenty, but we have a little.”

She put her basket down and opened it. She took out some pieces of brown fried chicken; then she took out some big slices of cake, with raisins in it. She even added some biscuits and slices of ham. Then she put them in a coarse, clean napkin.

“Now, look here,” she said, “don’t you go filling up with candy and peanuts, just because you are by yourselves. You put this in your bag, and eat it when you’re ready. ’T any rate, it’s good, home-made victuals, and won’t harm you.”

And in the midst of their shy thanks, she shut the basket again and went off with her husband, and they heard her say again, before she disappeared,

“Well, Jem!”

XIII

Yes, there were plenty of kind people in the world, and one of the best proofs of it was that, in that busy, wonderful place through which all the world seemed passing, and where, on every side, were a thousand things to attract attention, and so fill eyes and mind that forgetfulness and carelessness of small things might not have been quite unnatural, these two small things, utterly insignificant and unknown to the crowds they threaded, met many a passing friend of the moment, and found themselves made happier by many a kindly and helpful word or look. Officials were good-natured to them, guides were good-humored, motherly women and fatherly men protected them in awkward crowds. They always saw that those who noticed them glanced about for their chaperons, and again and again they were asked who was taking care of them; but Robin’s straightforward, civil little answer, “We’re taking care of ourselves,” never failed to waken as much friendly interest as surprise.

They kept up their fairy story of the Great Genius, and called things by fairy-story names, and talked to each other of their fairy-story fancies about them. It was so much more delightful to say: “Let us go to the Palace of the Genius of the Sea,” than to say, “Let us go to the Fisheries’ building.” And once in the palace, standing among great rocks and pools and fountains, with water splashing and tumbling over strange sea-plants, and strange sea-monsters swimming beneath their eyes in green sea-water, it was easy to believe in the Genius who had brought them all together.

“He was very huge,” Meg said, making a picture of him. “He had monstrous eyes, that looked like the sea when it is blue; he had great, white coral teeth, and he had silver, scaly fishskin wound round him, and his hair was long sea-grass and green and brown weeds.”

They stood in grottoes and looked down into clear pools, at swift-darting things of gold and silver and strange prismatic colors. Meg made up stories of tropical rivers, with palms and jungle cane fringing them, and tigers and lions coming to lap at the brink. She invented rushing mountain streams and lakes, with speckled trout leaping; and deep, deep seas, where whales lay rocking far below, and porpoises rolled, and devil-fish spread hideous, far-reaching tentacles for prey.

Oh, what a day it was! What wonders they saw and hung over, and dwelt on with passions of young delight! The great sea gave up its deep to them; great forests and trackless jungles their wonderful growths; kings’ palaces and queens’ coffers their rarest treasures; the ages of long ago their relics and strange legends, in stone and wood and brass and gold.

They did not know how often people turned and stopped to look at their two little, close-leaning figures and vivid, dark, ecstatic-eyed faces. They certainly never chanced to see that one figure was often behind them at a safe distance, and seemed rather to have fallen into the habit of going where they went and listening to what they said. It was their man, curiously enough, and it was true that he was rather a gloomy-looking man, when one observed him well. His keen, business-like, well-cut face had a cloud resting upon it; he looked listless and unsmiling, even in the palaces that most stirred the children’s souls; and, in fact, it seemed to be their odd enthusiasm which had attracted him a little, because he was in the mood to feel none himself. He had been within hearing distance when Meg had been telling her stories of the Genius of the Palace of the Sea, and a faint smile had played about his mouth for a moment. Then he had drawn a trifle nearer, still keeping out of sight, and when they had moved he had followed them. He had been a hard, ambitious, wealth-gaining man all his life. A few years before he had found a new happiness, which softened him for a while, and made his world seem a brighter thing. Then a black sorrow had come upon him, and everything had changed. He had come to the Enchanted City, not as the children had come, because it shone before them, a radiant joy, but because he wondered if it would distract him at all. All other things had failed; his old habits of work and scheme, his successes, his ever-growing fortune, they were all as nothing. The world was empty to him, and he walked about it feeling like a ghost. The little dark, vivid faces had attracted him, he did not know why, and when he heard the story of the Palace of the Sea, he was led on by a vague interest.

He was near them often during the day, but it was not until late in the afternoon that they saw him themselves, when he did not see them. They came upon him in a quiet spot where he was sitting alone. On a seat near him sat a young woman, resting, with a baby asleep in her arms. The young woman was absorbed in her child, and was apparently unconscious of him. His arms were folded and his head bent, but he was looking at her in an absent, miserable way. It was as if she made him think of something bitter and sad.

Meg and Robin passed him quietly.

“I see what you meant, Meg,” Robin said. “He does look as if something was the matter with him. I wonder what it is?”

When they passed out of the gates at dusk, it was with worn-out bodies, but enraptured souls. In the street-car, which they indulged in the extravagance of taking, the tired people, sitting exhaustedly in the seats and hanging on to straps, looked with a sort of wonder at them, their faces shone so like stars. They did not know where they were going to sleep, and they were more than ready for lying down, but they were happy beyond words.

They went with the car until it reached the city’s heart, and then they got out and walked. The streets were lighted, and the thoroughfares were a riot of life and sound. People were going to theatres, restaurants, and hotels, which were a blaze of electric radiance. They found themselves limping a little, but they kept stoutly on, holding firmly to the satchel.

“We needn’t be afraid of going anywhere, however poor it looks,” Robin said, with a grave little elderly air. He was curiously grave for his years, sometimes. “Anybody can see we have nothing to steal. I think any one would know that we only want to go to bed.”

It was a queer place they finally hit upon. It was up a side street, which was poorly lighted, and where the houses were all shabby and small. On the steps of one of them a tired-looking woman was sitting, with a pale, old-faced boy beside her. Robin stopped before her.

“Have you a room where my sister could sleep, and I could have a mattress on the floor, or lie down on anything?” he said. “We can’t afford to go anywhere where it will cost more than fifty cents each.”

The woman looked at them indifferently. She was evidently very much worn out with her day’s work, and discouraged by things generally.

“I haven’t anything worth more than fifty cents, goodness knows,” she answered. “You must be short of money to come here. I’ve never thought of having roomers.”

“We’re poor,” said Robin, “and we know we can’t have anything but a poor room. If we can lie down, we are so tired we shall go to sleep anywhere. We’ve been at the Fair all day.”

The pale little old-faced boy leaned forward, resting his arm on his mother’s knee. They saw that he was a very poor little fellow, indeed, with a hunch back.

“Mother,” he said, “let ’em stay; I’ll sleep on the floor.”

The woman gave a dreary half laugh, and got up from the step. “He’s crazy about the Fair,” she said. “We hain’t no money to spend on Fairs, and he’s most wild about it. You can stay here to-night, if you want to.”

She made a sign to them to follow her. The hunchback boy rose too, and went into the dark passage after them. He seemed to regard them with a kind of hunger in his look.

They went up the narrow, steep staircase. It was only lighted by a dim gleam from a room below, whose door was open. The balustrades were rickety, and some of them were broken out. It was a forlorn enough place. The hunchback boy came up the steps, awkwardly, behind them. It was as if he wanted to see what would happen.

They went up two flights of the crooked, crazy stairs, and at the top of the second flight the woman opened a door.

“That’s all the place there is,” she said. “It isn’t anything more than a place to lie down in, you see. I can put a mattress on the floor for you, and your sister can sleep in the cot.”

“That’s all we want,” replied Robin.

But it was a poor place. A room, both small and bare, and with broken windows. There was nothing in it but the cot and a chair.

“Ben sleeps here,” the woman said. “If I couldn’t make him a place on the floor, near me, I couldn’t let it to you.” Meg turned and looked at Ben. He was gazing at her with a nervous interest.

“We’re much obliged to you,” she said.

“It’s all right,” he said, with eager shyness. “Do you want some water to wash yourselves with? I can bring you up a tin basin and a jug. You can set it on the chair.”

“Thank you,” they both said at once. And Robin added, “We want washing pretty badly.”

Ben turned about and went down-stairs for the water as if he felt a sort of excitement in doing the service. These two children, who looked as poor as himself, set stirring strange thoughts in his small, unnourished brain.

He brought back the tin basin and water, a piece of yellow soap, and even a coarse, rather dingy, towel. He had been so eager that he was out of breath when he returned, but he put the basin on the chair and the tin jug beside it, with a sort of exultant look in his poor face.

“Thank you,” said Meg again; “thank you, Ben.”

She could not help watching him as his mother prepared the rather wretched mattress for Robin. Once he caught the look of her big, childish, gray eyes as it rested upon him with questioning sympathy, and he flushed up so that even by the light of the little smoky lamp she saw it. When the woman had finished she and the boy went away and left them, and they stood a moment looking at each other. They were both thinking of the same thing, but somehow they did not put it into words.

“We’ll wash off the dust first,” said Robin, “and then we’ll eat some of the things we have left from what the woman gave us. And then we’ll go to bed, and we shall drop just like logs.”

And this they did, and it was certainly a very short time before the smoky little lamp was out, and each had dropped like a log and lay stretched in the darkness, with a sense of actual ecstasy in limbs laid down to rest and muscles relaxed for sleeping.

“Robin,” said Meg, drowsily, through the dark that divided them, “everybody in the world has something to give to somebody else.”

“I’m thinking that, too,” Robin answered, just as sleepily; “nobody is so poor—that—he—hasn’t anything. That—boy——”

“He let us have his hard bed,” Meg murmured, “and he—hasn’t seen——”

But her voice died away, and Robin would not have heard her if she had said more. And they were both fast, fast asleep.

XIV

It would have been a loud sound which would have awakened them during those deep sleeping hours of the night. They did not even stir on their poor pillows when, long after midnight, there was the noise of heavy drunken footsteps and heavy drunken stumbling in the passage below, and then the raising of a man’s rough voice, and the upsetting of chairs and the slamming of doors, mingled with the expostulations of the woman, whose husband had come home in something worse than his frequent ill-fashion. They slept sweetly through it all, but when the morning came, and hours of unbroken rest had made their slumbers lighter, and the sunshine streamed in through the broken windows, they were called back to the world by loud and angry sounds.

“What is it?” said Meg, sitting bolt upright and rubbing her eyes; “somebody’s shouting.”

“And somebody’s crying,” said Robin, sitting up too, but more slowly.

It was quite clear to them, as soon as they were fully awake, that both these things were happening. A man seemed to be quarrelling below. They could hear him stamping about and swearing savagely. And they could hear the woman’s voice, which sounded as if she were trying to persuade him to do or leave undone something. They could not hear her words, but she was crying, and somebody else was crying, too, and they knew it was the boy with the little old face and the hump-back.

“I suppose it’s the woman’s husband,” said Meg. “I’m glad he wasn’t here last night.”

“I wonder if he knows we are here,” said Robin, listening anxiously.

It was plain that he did know. They heard him stumbling up the staircase, grumbling and swearing as he came, and he was coming up to their room, it was evident.

“What shall we do?” exclaimed Meg, in a whisper.

“Wait,” Robin answered, breathlessly. “We can’t do anything.”

The heavy feet blundered up the short second flight and blundered to their door. It seemed that the man had not slept off his drunken fit. He struck the door with his fist.

“Hand out that dollar,” he shouted. “When my wife takes roomers I’m going to be paid. Hand it out.”

They heard the woman hurrying up the stairs after him. She was out of breath with crying, and there was a choking sound in her voice when she spoke to them through the door.

“You’d better let him have it,” she said.

“I guess they’d better,” said the man, roughly. “Who’d’ they suppose owns the house?”

Robin got up and took a dollar from their very small store, which was hidden in the lining of his trousers. He went to the door and opened it a little, and held the money out.

“Here it is,” he said.

The man snatched it out of his hand and turned away, and went stumbling down stairs, still growling. The woman stood a minute on the landing, and they heard her make a pitiful sort of sound, half sob, half sniff.

Meg sat up in bed, with her chin on her hands, and glared like a little lioness.

“What do you think of _that_?” she said.

“He’s a devil!” said Robin, with terseness. And he was conscious of no impropriety. “I wanted that boy to have it, and _go_.” It was not necessary to say where.

“So did I,” answered Meg. “And I believe his mother would have given it to him, too.”

They heard the man leave the house a few minutes later, and then it did not take them long to dress and go down the narrow, broken-balustraded stairs again. As they descended the first flight they saw the woman cooking something over the stove in her kitchen, and as she moved about they saw her brush her apron across her eyes.

The squalid street was golden with the early morning sunshine, which is such a joyful thing, and, in the full, happy flood of it, a miserable little figure sat crouched on the steps. It was the boy Ben, and they saw that he looked paler than he had looked the night before, and his little face looked older. His elbow was on his knee and his cheek on his hand, and there were wet marks on his cheeks.

A large lump rose up in Meg’s throat.

“I know what’s the matter,” she whispered to Robin.

“So—so do I,” Robin answered, rather unsteadily. “And he’s poorer than anybody else. It _ought_ not to go by him.”

“No, no,” said Meg. “It oughtn’t.”

She walked straight to the threshold and sat down on the step beside him. She was a straightforward child, and she was too much moved to stand on ceremony. She sat down quite close by the poor little fellow, and put her hand on his arm.

“Never you mind,” she said. “Never you mind.” And her throat felt so full that for a few seconds she could say nothing more.

Robin stood against the door post. The effect of this was to make his small jaw square itself.

“Don’t mind us at all,” he said. “We—we know.”

The little fellow looked at Meg and then up at him. In that look he saw that they did know.