PLANS AND PROBLEMS
“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!”