They and I Part 18

"And the more they try to be good, the more it will turn out that they ain't been good," Veronica reflected.

"Their goodness and their badness will depend upon us in more senses than one, Veronica," I explained. "When Consols are down, when the east wind has touched up our liver, they will be surprised how bad they are."

"And they mustn't ever forget what they've ever been once told," crowed Veronica. "We mustn't have to tell 'em the same thing over and over again, like we was talking to brick walls."

"And if we meant to tell them and forgot to tell them," I added, "we will tell them that they ought not to want us to tell them a simple thing like that, as if they were mere babies. We must remember all these points."

"And if they grumble we'll tell them that's 'cos they don't know how happy they are. And we'll tell them how good we used to be when-I say, don't you miss your train, or I shall get into a row."

"Great Scott! I'd forgotten all about that train, Veronica," I admitted.

"Better run," suggested Veronica.

It sounded good advice.

"Keep on thinking about that book," shouted Veronica.

"Make a note of things as they occur to you," I shouted back.

"What shall we call it?" Veronica screamed.

"'Why the Man in the Moon looks sat upon,'" I shrieked.

When I turned again she was sitting on the top rail of the stile conducting an imaginary orchestra with one of her own shoes. The six-fifteen was fortunately twenty minutes late.

I thought it best to tell Ethelbertha the truth; that things had gone wrong with the kitchen stove.

"Let me know the worst," she said. "Is Veronica hurt?"

"The worst," I said, "is that I shall have to pay for a new range. Why, when anything goes amiss, poor Veronica should be a.s.sumed as a matter of course to be in it, appears to me unjust."

"You are sure she's all right?" persisted Ethelbertha.

"Honest Injun-confound those children and their slang-I mean positively,"

I answered. The Little Mother looked relieved.

I told her all the trouble we had had in connection with the cow. Her sympathies were chiefly with the cow. I told her I had hopes of Robina's developing into a sensible woman. We talked quite a deal about Robina.

We agreed that between us we had accomplished something rather clever.

"I must get back as soon as I can," I said. "I don't want young Bute getting wrong ideas into his head."

"Who is young Bute?" she asked.

"The architect," I explained.

"I thought he was an old man," said Ethelbertha.

"Old Spreight is old enough," I said. "Young Bute is one of his young men; but he understands his work, and seems intelligent."

"What's he like?" she asked.

"Personally, an exceedingly nice young fellow. There's a good deal of sense in him. I like a boy who listens."

"Good-looking?" she asked.

"Not objectionably so," I replied. "A pleasant face-particularly when he smiles."

"Is he married?" she asked.

"Really, it did not occur to me to ask him," I admitted. "How curious you women are! No, I don't think so. I should say not."

"Why don't you think so?" she demanded.

"Oh, I don't know. He doesn't give you the idea of a married man.

You'll like him. Seems so fond of his sister."

"Shall we be seeing much of him?" she asked.

"A goodish deal," I answered. "I expect he will be going down on Monday.

Very annoying, this stove business."

"What is the use of his being there without you?" Ethelbertha wanted to know.

"Oh, he'll potter round," I suggested, "and take measurements. d.i.c.k will be about to explain things to him. Or, if he isn't, there's Robina-awkward thing is, Robina seems to have taken a dislike to him."

"Why has she taken a dislike to him?" asked Ethelbertha.

"Oh, because he mistook the back of the house for the front, or the front of the house for the back," I explained; "I forget which now. Says it's his smile that irritates her. She owns herself there's no real reason."

"When will you be going down again?" Ethelbertha asked.

"On Thursday next," I told her; "stove or no stove."

She said she would come with me. She felt the change would do her good, and promised not to do anything when she got there. And then I told her all that I had done for d.i.c.k.

"The ordinary farmer," I pointed out to her, "is so often a haphazard type of man with no ideas. If successful, it is by reason of a natural instinct which cannot be taught. St. Leonard has studied the theory of the thing. From him d.i.c.k will learn all that can be learnt about farming. The selection, I felt, demanded careful judgment."

"But will d.i.c.k stick to it?" Ethelbertha wondered.

"There, again," I pointed out to her, "the choice was one calling for exceptional foresight. The old man-as a matter of fact, he isn't old at all; can't be very much older than myself; I don't know why they all call him the old man-has formed a high opinion of d.i.c.k. His daughter told me so, and I have taken care to let d.i.c.k know it. The boy will not care to disappoint him. Her mother-"

"Whose mother?" interrupted Ethelbertha.

"Janie's mother, Mrs. St. Leonard," I explained. "She also has formed a good opinion of him. The children like him. Janie told me so."

"She seems to do a goodish deal of talking, this Miss Janie," remarked Ethelbertha.