"You, as the business partner," I asked her, "are hopeful that the farm will pay?"
"Oh, yes," she answered, "it will pay all right―it does pay, for the matter of that. We live on it and live comfortably. But, of course, I can see mother's point of view, with seven young children to bring up. And it is not only that." She stopped herself abruptly. "Oh, well," she continued with a laugh, "you have got to know us. Father is trying. He loves experiments, and a woman hates experiments. Last year it was bare feet. I daresay it is healthier. But children who have been about in bare feet all the morning―well, it isn't pleasant when they sit down to lunch; I don't care what you say. You can't be always washing. He is so unpractical. He was quite angry with mother and myself because we wouldn't. And a man in bare feet looks so ridiculous. This summer it is short hair and no hats; and Sally had such pretty hair. Next year it will be sabots or turbans―something or other suggesting the idea that we've lately escaped from a fair. On Mondays and Thursdays we talk French. We have got a French nurse; and those are the only days in the week on which she doesn't understand a word that's said to her. We can none of us understand father, and that makes him furious. He won't say it in English; he makes a note of it, meaning to tell us on Tuesday or Friday, and then, of course, he forgets, and wonders why we haven't done it. He's the dearest fellow alive. When I think of him as a big boy, then he is charming, and if he really were only a big boy there are times when I would shake him and feel better for it."
She laughed again. I wanted her to go on talking, because her laugh was so delightful. But we had reached the road, and she said she must go back: there were so many things she had to do.
"We have not settled about Dick," I reminded her.
"Mother took rather a liking to him," she murmured.
"If Dick could make a living," I said, "by getting people to like him, I should not be so anxious about his future―lazy young devil!"
"He has promised to work hard if you let him take up farming," said Miss Janie.
"He has been talking to you?" I said.
She admitted it.
"He will begin well," I said. "I know him. In a month he will have tired of it, and be clamouring to do something else."
"I shall be very disappointed in him if he does," she said.
"I will tell him that," I said, "it may help. People don't like other people to be disappointed in them."
"I would rather you didn't," she said. "You could say that father will be disappointed in him. Father formed rather a good opinion of him, I know."
"I will tell him," I suggested, "that we shall all be disappointed in him."
She agreed to that, and we parted. I remembered, when she was gone, that after all we had not settled terms.
Dick overtook me a little way from home.
"I have settled your business," I told him.
"It's awfully good of you," said Dick.
"Mind," I continued, "it's on the understanding that you throw yourself into the thing and work hard. If you don't, I shall be disappointed in you, I tell you so frankly."
"That's all right, governor," he answered cheerfully. "Don't you worry."
"Mr. St. Leonard will also be disappointed in you, Dick," I informed him. "He has formed a very high opinion of you. Don't give him cause to change it."
"I'll get on all right with him," answered Dick. "Jolly old duffer, ain't he?"
"Miss Janie will also be disappointed in you," I added.
"Did she say that?" he asked.
"She mentioned it casually," I explained: "though now I come to think of it she asked me not to say so. What she wanted me to impress upon you was that her father would be disappointed in you."
Dick walked beside me in silence for awhile.
"Sorry I've been a worry to you, dad," he said at last
"Glad to hear you say so," I replied.
"I'm going to turn over a new leaf, dad," he said. "I'm going to work hard."
"About time," I said.
CHAPTER VI
We had cold bacon for lunch that day. There was not much of it. I took it to be the bacon we had not eaten for breakfast. But on a clean dish with parsley it looked rather neat. It did not suggest, however, a lunch for four people, two of whom had been out all the morning in the open air. There was some excuse for Dick.
"I never heard before," said Dick, "of cold fried bacon as a hors d'oeuvre."
"It is not a hors d'oeuvre," explained Robina. "It is all there is for lunch." She spoke in the quiet, passionless voice of one who has done with all human emotion. She added that she should not be requiring any herself, she having lunched already.
Veronica, conveying by her tone and bearing the impression of something midway between a perfect lady and a Christian martyr, observed that she also had lunched.
"Wish I had," growled Dick.
I gave him a warning kick. I could see he was on the way to getting himself into trouble. As I explained to him afterwards, a woman is most dangerous when at her meekest. A man, when he feels his temper rising, takes every opportunity of letting it escape. Trouble at such times he welcomes. A broken boot-lace, or a shirt without a button, is to him then as water in the desert. An only collar-stud that will disappear as if by magic from between his thumb and finger and vanish apparently into thin air is a piece of good fortune sent on these occasions only to those whom the gods love. By the time he has waddled on his hands and knees twice round the room, broken the boot-jack raking with it underneath the wardrobe, been bumped and slapped and kicked by every piece of furniture that the room contains, and ended up by stepping on that stud and treading it flat, he has not a bitter or an angry thought left in him. All that remains of him is sweet and peaceful. He fastens his collar with a safety-pin, humming an old song the while.
Failing the gifts of Providence, the children―if in health―can generally be depended upon to afford him an opening. Sooner or later one or another of them will do something that no child, when he was a boy, would have dared―or dreamed of daring―to even so much as think of doing. The child, conveying by expression that the world, it is glad to say, is slowly but steadily growing in sense, and pity it is that old-fashioned folks can't bustle up and keep abreast of it, points out that firstly it has not done this thing, that for various reasons―a few only of which need be dwelt upon―it is impossible it could have done this thing; that secondly it has been expressly requested to do this thing, that wishful always to give satisfaction, it has―at sacrifice of all its own ideas―gone out of its way to do this thing; that thirdly it can't help doing this thing, strive against fate as it will.
He says he does not want to hear what the child has got to say on the subject―nor on any other subject, neither then nor at any other time. He says there's going to be a new departure in this house, and that things all round are going to be very different. He suddenly remembers every rule and regulation he has made during the past ten years for the guidance of everybody, and that everybody, himself included, has forgotten. He tries to talk about them all at once, in haste lest he should forget them again. By the time he has succeeded in getting himself, if nobody else, to understand himself, the children are swarming round his knees extracting from him promises that in his sober moments he will be sorry that he made.