Читать книгу Robin - Mary Grant Bruce - Страница 6

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“There isn’t so much to tell you,” Mrs. Hurst said. The room was tidy, the kitchen work done; Robin had made up the fire and pulled her mother’s couch close to it. She sat on the hearthrug near her; so near that Mrs. Hurst could put out her hand and touch the shining red hair.

“I don’t know anything, you see,” Robin answered. “Was he—was Uncle Donald ill long, Mummie?”

“Only about ten days. He had been very trying for over a month: his temper was worse than ever, and nothing I could do seemed to please him. I think the poor old man must have been suffering, but he would never tell me anything, and there were times when I was almost in despair. Then one night he would not eat, and when I took him some nourishment after he had gone to bed he flew into a violent passion and shouted at me until even Danny woke and came running to see what was the matter.”

Robin set her lips.

“I suppose I ought to be sorry that he’s dead,” she said. “But I can’t be, Mother—I just can’t. He was a bad, cruel old man. That anyone should speak to you like that—!”

“I think he was sorry afterwards. The fit of anger ended in a violent coughing attack, and at last he fainted. I sent Danny to the village to telephone for the doctor, but he was away in the hills and could not get here until the next day, about noon, and I had a terrible time trying to keep Uncle Donald in bed: he would try to get up and dress, but he always fainted. When the doctor came he became more obedient. The doctor told me from the first that there was no hope.”

“You should have got me home,” breathed Robin. She found her mother’s hand and held it tightly.

Mrs. Hurst shuddered.

“I would not have had you here for anything. He was very difficult to manage—his temper seemed to get quite beyond his control. And all the time he hated me, Robin—he just hated me. You could see it in every look he gave me, not only in the bitter things he said.”

“And you had no help?”

“I tried to get a nurse, but there were none to be had. Some of the women about here came when they could, and Danny was a great comfort. There was really very little to be done for the poor old man. But it was a very heart-breaking thing to see him dying like that—hating everyone, and with his heart full of malice. Thank God, at the last the evil spirit seemed to leave him. For it really was an evil spirit, Robin: something that seemed to take possession of him, and to control his mind.”

“And it left him?” said Robin, awed.

“Twenty-four hours before he died. He woke up from a long sleep, very weak, but quite rational and quiet. The first thing he said was to tell me to get the lawyer out from the township at once—Mr. Briggs. Fortunately, Danny was able to get him on the telephone and he came out in a car immediately, with his clerk. Uncle Donald got him to make his will, and they propped him up while he signed it. It was all very distressing, for he was so weak, and we feared he might die at any moment. After the business was done he seemed to grow stronger, and talked to me quite kindly.”

“I’m glad he did,” said Robin. “It would have been awful if he had died in that wicked mood.”

“Yes—it would have been terrible. He said once, ‘You’ve been very kind to me, Alice, and I’ve been very hard on you.’ And he asked me to forgive him—poor old man! He seemed to want to have me with him after that, and he liked me to hold his hand. I was holding it when he died, very early the next morning.”

“I wish you had got me sooner,” said Robin, very low.

“I did not want to get you until—until everything was over. The funeral was this morning. And after that I felt as if I could hardly wait until you came.”

Robin put her cheek against the hand she held, and for a while they were silent.

“You must be just worn out, Mummie,” the girl said, at length.

“Oh, I shall be quite well in a few days. I think I did not know how tired I was until I saw you. Then I seemed to go all to pieces.” She smiled at the bent head. “It was feeling that I had someone to lean upon, I suppose.”

“Well, you’d better just lean hard,” said Robin, sturdily. “You’re going to be an invalid for a few days—I mean to keep you in bed, and make you forget everything: we’ve got such heaps to talk about. Mummie, are we going to be very poor?”

“Are you afraid of being poor?”

“Not a bit. We’ve never been anything else, have we? As long as we are together I don’t mind anything at all.”

“We shall be very poor, my girl. Uncle Donald left me all he had, but it is not much. Most of his income came from money he had sunk in an annuity, and that, of course, died with him. The farm is not valuable. I consulted Mr. Briggs about selling it, but he thinks there would be no chance of that, and that we should get very little, even if we were able to sell.”

“But we can’t work it, can we? I’ll do anything in the world to help, Mummie, but I know two women can’t run the place.”

“No, we couldn’t possibly work it; even if we employed a man it could hardly be carried on, and wages and keep would eat up the profits. Properties are hard to sell just now, Mr. Briggs says; people are afraid of the difficult life on the hill farms, with the constant struggle against rabbits and bracken. He thinks he could let the land to one of the neighbours: the Merritts need more land, he says, now that the railway has come and they can get their produce away more easily. He advises us to let the paddocks, retaining the house and the few acres round it. With very great care I think we could live on the income we should get. But it would mean looking at every penny twice.”

“Well, you know best, Mother, darling. What could we do if we didn’t let the land to Mr. Merritt?”

“I think we have very little choice. Selling is out of the question, for the present, at any rate. We might try to let the whole property, with the house; if we could do that I might get some work in Melbourne that would add to our income. But work is hard to get, for anyone of my age; and I should hardly know what to do with you.”

“I think that’s a perfectly hateful idea!” Robin sat up with a jerk. “You mean to go slaving in some beastly shop or office, I suppose—wearing yourself out altogether! Don’t you think we could manage to stay on here, Mother? We could live on awfully little—I can shoot rabbits and catch fish, and we hardly need any clothes out in this lonely place! And it would be so lovely to be together again—just you and I. You know how we used to ache to be by ourselves somewhere, in the holidays.”

“Do you think I don’t want it as much as you do? I have thought of nothing else. Oh, I think we may venture to try it, Robin—even if it were only for a year or two. I wouldn’t want you to stay here too long: when you are eighteen I should like you to learn typewriting and shorthand, so that you would have a profession to fall back upon.”

“I don’t seem to care what we do in a couple of years,” Robin said, laughing. “But at present I want to stay here, in this jolly old place, and feel that it’s our very own, and that no one can turn us out of it. It is such a dear old house, and we could make it so pretty. We’ll have a scrumptious garden, Mummie: I can do the digging, and you’ll supply the brains. I don’t see why we shouldn’t sell vegetables, because of course we can never eat all we grow!”

“That might be an idea,” said Mrs. Hurst, thoughtfully. “Now that the railway is here it would be easy to send fresh vegetables into Baroin once a week.”

“We’ll make heaps of money,” said Robin, with the gay confidence of nearly sixteen. “And rabbits, Mummie—isn’t it a mercy that Father taught me to shoot, and that we have his gun? Nice young bunnies ought to be very saleable—and think of the skins! they are worth ever so much. Danny can teach me to prepare them. We’ll have to do without Danny. I suppose?”

“Yes—we have no chance of keeping a boy. The cows must be sold. I thought we would keep the little Jersey: she has a beautiful calf a week old. She will give us more butter than we need, but I can sell it at the store in the village.”

“Well, I can milk her,” said Robin.

“That will be my job,” said her mother, with firmness.

“Certainly, if you get there first!” rejoined Robin politely. They laughed at each other, and Mrs. Hurst gave a great sigh of happiness.

“Oh, if you knew what a difference it makes to have you!” she said. “Everything looked black to me, and I was sure I could not manage to make both ends meet. And I’m not sure now: we are certain to have a hard struggle, with plenty of anxiety and care, but nothing seems to matter so much now.”

“I don’t see how anything can matter much, if we are together,” said Robin, simply. “We’re both strong—at least you will be after you have had a good rest—and you’re nearly as young as I am—”

“Robin, what nonsense!”

“Indeed, you are—you know Father married you and ran away with you when you hardly had your hair up! and you’ll grow younger every year, because we’re going to make a joke of everything, and there will be no one to be cross with you any more. At least, I shall be very cross with you if you try to do foolish things like milking cows—but you’ll soon learn that it isn’t safe! And everything will be tremendous fun, even if we have to live on turnips and buttermilk. I think we’re the luckiest people that ever owned a farm!”

“I think I am a very lucky mother,” Mrs. Hurst said, quietly.

“Indeed, Miss Stone wouldn’t tell you so. Mother, darling, I’ve come home with a horribly bad character—Miss Stone thinks I’m absolutely no good in the world. I was always getting into scrapes and sinking lower and lower in the form. I didn’t mean to be so hopeless; but I seemed to get into rows without any effort on my part, and at last I just didn’t care. I’m awfully sorry now, ’cause of you. But it really isn’t a school that makes you proud of it, and no one trusts Miss Stone. I’m just glad all over that I need never see her again!”

“Do the girls trust you?” Mrs. Hurst asked.

Robin’s head went up, and she coloured hotly.

“Yes,” she said, shortly. “They know they can.”

“Well, I am not going to let Miss Stone’s report worry me,” said her mother. “I’m sorry you have got into trouble, and I wish you had worked better, especially as you have no more chances of learning. But you and I are facing the real things of life now, and school scrapes, big as they seem at the moment, will soon be forgotten. We’re partners, my daughter, and we have to trust each other in all things, and work together.” She sighed. “I do hope it won’t mean that you will get none of the joy of life while you are young. I had always hoped to be able to give you a good time—such a time as I had myself before Father, as you say ‘married me and ran away with me’.”

Robin hugged her enthusiastically.

“If you only knew how I’m loving the bare idea of being partners!” she exclaimed. “I never dared to hope for anything so lovely: all the way in the train, even when I ached with joy at seeing the country, I was aching in a different way at the thought of going back to school! I’d never have done any good there, Mummie—you don’t know how hopeless it was. Now we’ll be working together, in our own home, and sharing everything. I’m blessed if I want more joy of life than that is going to mean!”

She sat back on her heels, the firelight dancing on her vivid face and her mop of red hair.

“And to think,” she chanted, “that they’ll be getting up in the morning at the sound of the same old bell, and ploughing through the same old stodgy lessons all day, and eating the same old awful meals, and walking in the same old crocodile down the same old dusty streets! And I’m free and independent and here——”

“Milking the same old cow!” laughed her mother—looking suddenly as young as she.

“In the same old cow-bail,” Robin flashed back. “And I wouldn’t change my job for all the tea in China!”