The consultation had lasted more than an hour.
From the cobbled square outside you could see them through the window,
Mamma, Uncle Edward, Uncle Victor and Farmer Alderson, sitting round the
dining-room table and talking, talking, talking about Roddy.
It was awful to think that things--things that concerned you--could go on
and be settled over your head without your knowing anything about it. She
only knew that Papa had made Uncle Victor and Uncle Edward the trustees
and guardians of his children who should be under age at his death (she
and Roddy were under age), and that Mamma had put the idea of farming in
Canada into Uncle Edward's head, and that Uncle Victor had said he
wouldn't hear of letting Roddy go out by himself, and that the landlord
of the Buck Hotel had told Victor that Farmer Alderson's brother Ben had
a big farm somewhere near Montreal and young Jem Alderson was going out
to him in March and they might come to some arrangement.
They were coming to it now.
Roddy and she, crouching beside each other on the hearthrug in the
drawing-room, waited till it should be over. Through the shut doors they
could still distinguish Uncle Edward's smooth, fat voice from Uncle
Victor's thin one. The booming and baying were the noises made by Farmer
Alderson.
"I can't think what they want to drag _him_ in for," Roddy said. "It'll
only make it more unpleasant for them."
Roddy's eyes had lost their fear; they were fixed in a wise, mournful
stare. He stared at his fate.
"They don't know yet quite _how_ imbecile I am. If I could have gone out
quietly by myself they never need have known. Now they'll _have_ to.
Alderson'll tell them. He'll tell everybody.... I don't care. It's their
own look-out. They'll soon see I was right."
"Listen," she said.
The dining-room door had opened. Uncle Edward's voice came out first,
sounding with a sort of complacent finality. They must have settled it.
You could hear Farmer Alderson stumping his way to the front door. His
voice boomed from the step.
"Ah doan't saay, look ye, 'e'll mak mooch out of en t' farst ye-ear--"
"Damn him, you can hear his beastly voice all over the place."
"Ef yore yoong mon's dead set to larn fa-armin', an' ef 'e've got a head
on 'is shoulders our Jem can larn 'en. Ef 'e '_aven't_, ah tall yo
stra-aight, Mr. Ollyveer, ye med joost's well tak yore mooney and trow it
in t' mistal."
Roddy laughed. "_I_ could have told them that," he said.
"Money?"
"Rather. They can't do it under two hundred pounds. I suppose Victor'll
stump up as usual."
"Poor Victor."
"Victor won't mind. He'll do anything for Mamma. They can call it a
premium if it makes them any happier, but it simply means that they're
paying Alderson to get rid of me."
"No. They've got it into their heads that it's bad for you sticking here
doing nothing."
"So it is. But being made to do what I can't do's worse.... I'm not
likely to do it any better with that young beast Alderson looking at me
all the time and thinking what a bloody fool I am.... They ought to have
left it to me. It would have come a lot cheaper. I was going anyhow. I
only stayed because of Papa. But I can't tell _them_ that. After all, I
was the only one who looked after him. If I'd gone you'd have had to."
"Yes."
"It would even come cheaper," he said, "if I stayed. I can prove it."
He produced his pocket sketch-book. The leaves were scribbled over with
sums, sums desperately begun and left unfinished, sums that were not
quite sure of themselves, sums scratched out and begun again. He crossed
them all out and started on a fresh page.
"Premium, two hundred. Passage, twenty. Outfit, say thirty. Two hundred
and fifty.
"Land cheap, lumber cheap. Labour expensive. Still, Alderson would be so
pleased he might do the job himself for a nominal sum and only charge you
for the wood. Funeral expenses, say ten dollars.
"How much does it cost to keep me here?"
"I haven't an idea."
"No, but think."
"I can't think."
"Well, say I eat ten shillings' worth of food per week, that's twenty-six
pounds a year. Say thirty. Clothes, five. Thirty-five. Sundries, perhaps
five. Forty. But I do the garden. What's a gardener's wages? Twenty?
Fifteen?
"Say fifteen. Fifteen from forty, fifteen from forty--twenty-five. How
much did Papa's funeral come to?"
"Oh--Roddy--I don't know."
"Say thirty. Twenty-five from two hundred and fifty, two hundred and
twenty-five. Deduct funeral. One hundred and ninety-five.
"There you are. One hundred and ninety-five pounds for carting me to
Canada."
"If you feel like that about it you ought to tell them. They can't make
you go if you don't want to."
"They're not making me go. I'm going. I couldn't possibly stay after the
beastly things they've said."
"What sort of things?"
"About my keep and my being no good and making work in the house."
"They didn't--they couldn't."
"Edward did. He said if it wasn't for me Mamma wouldn't have to have
Maggie. Catty could do all the work. And when Victor sat on him and said
Mamma was to have Maggie whatever happened, he jawed back and said she
couldn't afford both Maggie and me."
"Catty could do Maggie's work and I could do Catty's, if you'd stop. It
would be only cleaning things. That's nothing. I'd rather clean the whole
house and _have_ you."
"You wouldn't. You only think you would."
"I would, really. I'll tell them."
"It's no use," he said. "They won't let you."
"I'll make them. I'll go and tell Edward and Victor now."
She had shot up from the floor with sudden energy, and stood looking down
at Roddy as he still crouched there. Her heart ached for him. He didn't
want to go to Canada; he wanted to stay with Mamma, and Mamma was driving
him away from her, for no reason except that Uncle Edward said he ought
to go.
She could hear the dining-room door open and shut again. They were
coming.
Roddy rose from the floor. He drew himself up, stretching out his arms in
a crucified attitude, and grinned at her.
"Do you suppose," he said, "I'd let you?"
He grinned at Uncle Edward and Uncle Victor as they came in.
"Uncle Victor," she said, "Why should Roddy go away? If it's Maggie, we
don't really want her. I'll do Catty's work and he'll do the garden. So
he can stay, can't he?"
"He _can_, Mary, but I don't think he will."
"Of course I won't. If you hadn't waited to mix me up with Alderson I
could have cleared out and got there by this time. You don't suppose I
was going to sponge on my mother for ever, do you?"
He stood there, defying Uncle Edward and Uncle Victor, defying their
thoughts of him. She wondered whether he had forgotten the two hundred
pounds and whether they were thinking of it. They didn't answer, and
Roddy, after fixing on them a look they couldn't meet, strode out of the
room.
She thought: How like Mark he is, with his tight, squared shoulders,
holding his head high. His hair was like Mark's hair, golden brown, close
clipped to the nape of his neck. When he had gone it would be like Mark's
going.
"It's better he should go," Uncle Victor said. "For his own sake."