Chapter II Breaking Bad News
It was one of Aileen Macleod’s whims that she liked to brew her own tea. A copper kettle bubbled busily over a spirit lamp on the tray as they entered the drawing-room, and her husband flung himself into an arm-chair and watched the slim, beautiful hands busy with the silver tea-caddy and the quaint, squat teapot. Neither spoke until she came to his side with his cup.
“I beg your pardon, dear,” he said, trying to rise. She kept him back, a hand on his shoulder.
“You’ve been working: why shouldn’t I bring you your tea?” she said, smiling at him.
“Because I ought to be looking after you,” he rejoined. He was on his feet with a quick movement, took her by the shoulders laughingly, and put her into a big chair, bringing tea and hot cakes to a tiny table beside her.
“There!” he said. “No: you want another cushion. Now lie back, sweetheart, and rest; you’re ever so much more tired than you’ll admit, even to yourself.”
“Being tired doesn’t matter, now,” she said. “Nothing matters, now that Garth is safe. But it’s nice to be bullied.” She smiled at him, with a little restful movement, then took up her cup. Over it she looked at him questioningly.
“Dr. Metcalfe is quite satisfied, Tom? What were you and he talking about for so long?”
“Oh, he’s quite satisfied with the boy’s progress,” Macleod answered. “He says you and he can go away quite soon. We—we were just yarning.” Something tied his tongue; she looked so tired, and yet so peaceful. He would not tell her just yet.
Aileen opened her lips to speak and then closed them again. They talked idly of the garden, the tulips that were just blossoming, and the new roses, until tea was over and a silent-footed maid had removed the tray. Macleod lit a cigarette, and lay back in his chair.
“Tell me, Tom,” she said quietly. “I know there is something more.”
He was silent for a moment, looking at her. She was very pale, her breath coming quickly.
“Don’t bother about anything now,” he said. “We’ve got the little chap back; and you’re dog-tired. You mustn’t worry about anything.”
“Don’t you see—when I don’t know, I think it’s Garth!” Her voice broke, almost in a cry. “Tell me—quick!”
He was on his knees beside her in a flash.
“What a fool I am!—it’s all right, my girl. Garth’s quite safe. Only we’ve got to go away—to leave all this and take him to the Bush. He’ll grow strong if we do. But I didn’t know how to tell you.”
His wife gave a long sigh, and put her face down on his shoulder.
“Oh-h!” she said. “I thought it was something that really mattered!”
“My girl!” said Macleod huskily. For a while they did not move. Then she put him away from her gently, and looked at him with steady eyes.
“I suppose I shall wake up some morning—perhaps to-morrow morning—to realize that it’s quite large and important,” she said. “But at present it seems the smallest thing, because all that really counts is that Garth is safe. Tell me all about it, Tom.”
“Metcalfe won’t answer for him if we keep him in town,” he said. “If we take him right into the country for a few years he will grow into a strong boy. Therefore, as the Americans say, it’s country for ours.”
“Of course. What will happen?”
“We’ll sell or let this place,” he said, watching her face keenly for some sign that the blow was telling. But there was no change in its eager interest, and he went on.
“I must send in my resignation at the office. They’ll be nice about it, of course: probably they’d always try to find a berth for me, though it would not be as good as this one. That will leave us with the little bit of private income we have and whatever we get out of the house. We might live on that, after a fashion. But if we’ve got to go into the country, I’d rather see if we can’t make something out of the land.”
“But we don’t know anything about it.”
“Not a thing,” Macleod agreed. “But I don’t believe it’s so awfully complicated: surely a man of reasonable common sense can learn. And look at the alternative—living in some beastly cottage in a township, with not a thing to do. I don’t think I could stand it.”
“I’m sure I couldn’t,” said his wife. “Of course you’ll learn—look at all the stupid people who do well out of land. Quite stupid people: and your worst enemy can’t say you haven’t got brains, Tom!”
“I make you my best bow,” said her husband solemnly. “You’re very encouraging, ma’am! I’ll try to live up to your high estimate of me. But what seems to matter more is that I think I’ve got enough muscle.”
For the first time a shadow of doubt came into her eyes.
“I don’t want you to be worked to death,” she said. “Will it be very hard for you, Tom?”
He broke into a short laugh.
“Hard for me! Do you think it matters the least little bit about me? But it maddens me to think what it’s going to mean for you. Do you realize that it means no more fun, as we’ve always counted fun? no more outings or gaiety, no pretty clothes? any sort of a home, and mighty little comfort? We—we won’t have much money, Aileen.”
“We’ll have enough to—to live, won’t we?” she asked. “To buy food, I mean?”
“Oh, there’ll be enough for that. But we’ll have to scrimp in a hundred ways. I don’t know that we can even keep a servant for you, though I don’t suppose, for that matter, that there are any to be had in the Bush. I wouldn’t mind that so much if I could help you: but I’ll have my own work outside, and it will keep me going. I’ve never let you work, Aileen,” he ended wistfully.
“No, you haven’t,” she said; looking at him gently. “If ever a woman was thoroughly spoilt it’s your wife!”
“I couldn’t have had the face to marry you, if it had meant that you would have to work,” he answered. “How could I, when you’d never done any work in your life?”
“I don’t know that that is a very creditable record for a woman,” she said reflectively. “I’ve often thought my life was too soft a one; only you have made it so easy to be lazy, Tom.”
“You’re not lazy,” he defended her hotly. “Look at all you have on hand—your music, the garden, the home—do you think it’s only servants that have made us our ‘House Beautiful?’ You’ve charities, and Women’s Leagues—and Garth. It seems to me you’re always busy.”
“They’re all very pretty things to play at,” she said, laughing. “All except Garth: he is a solid reality. Now I’m going to discover ever so many other realities. Don’t worry about me, Tom, dear. It’s going to be an Awfully Big Adventure, but we’ll get through somehow.”
She smiled up at him. Something like a great weight lifted from Macleod’s heart.
“You aren’t afraid?” he asked.
Her face grew grave, and for a moment she did not answer.
“I never knew what fear really meant until Garth was ill,” she said, at length. “One says one is afraid of lots of things; but you get right to the terrible depths of fear when you think your child is dying. And it teaches you that nothing else matters. Now that Garth has come back, and I can hold him again, nothing else even seems serious. I suppose a month ago I might have felt scared at the idea of cooking and scrubbing, but now I feel as if I could do it, and sing. You understand, don’t you?”
“Yes, I understand,” he answered. “It’s hard to imagine anything else troubling us, if the kid’s safe. But will we feel like that in a year’s time? in six months? The sharp edge of thankfulness will have worn off then, but the cooking and scrubbing will remain.”
She nodded.
“It isn’t easy to say. I suppose I shouldn’t make any predictions, since I don’t in the least understand all I’ll have to tackle. But plenty of other women have done it, and much more—women with half a dozen little children. I’m not going to be afraid.” She lifted her chin with a defiant little toss. “I suppose it will be hard, and I’ll make ever so many mistakes—so will you, and we’ll laugh at each other! Oh, Tom, nothing can be very bad if we keep laughing, and we have Garth!”
“You dear!” he said. “I might have known you’d take it that way. Of course”—he hesitated—“there are other alternatives. You wouldn’t care to send Garth to live on a farm for a few years, if we could get hold of the right people? Like the Agnews did with that delicate boy of theirs, you know?”
“The Agnews couldn’t help themselves,” said Aileen. “There’s a woman to be pitied, if you like. Mrs. Agnew aged ten years in the first year after she had to part with Harry. We don’t do that sort of thing in this family. Next?”
He laughed.
“With my first suggestion badly squashed——”
“You would have squashed it yourself if I hadn’t, Tom!”
“Yes, but I knew you would,” he said comfortably. “Well, the next is really more feasible.” He watched her narrowly. “Suppose I stayed on at the office, and we let this house, and I lived in rooms; there would be money enough to establish you and Garth in some little country place where you wouldn’t have to work, and it would be all right for the boy. It would mean separation, of course, but I might be able to run down to see you every few months. It would be far easier for you, dear.”
“And for you?”
“Whatever is best for you will be best for me,” he said. “You know that, Aileen, don’t you? I will be quite satisfied with your choice.”
“I wish I knew what you want,” she said, watching his face.
“And I won’t tell you.” He laughed at her.
“Very well,” she said, “then I will choose, and it’s your own fault if you don’t like it. I think that as a planner you begin well, and then slump dreadfully—at any rate, your last two efforts are simply horrid. Do you think I can take the responsibility of bringing up Garth alone, just when he needs a man’s hand? He’d break his heart. I wouldn’t dare to tell him we meant to leave you. And if you imagine that a little freedom from work would make up to me for being without you—— Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, Tom Macleod?”
He sat down on the arm of her chair and lifted her hand against his face.
“I had to give you your choice,” he said. “But you don’t know what a blue funk I was in!”
“Then you ought to be more ashamed of yourself than ever!” she retorted. “We’re mates, you and Garth and I: nothing matters, so long as we are together.”
“Not even scrubbing?”
“No,” she said. “Nor ploughing, Tom?”
“Certainly not. Nor cooking?”
“Cooking might be fun. What about milking?”
“I learned to milk in my extreme youth,” said he proudly. “That’s a detail. But—washing?”
“It’s done in the best families,” she said. “Counted out. How about clearing land?”
“I will do it with my little hatchet,” said her husband. “Washing-up, Aileen?”
“Ugh!” she said. “Even in this uplifted moment I can’t pretend I’m going to enjoy greasy dishes. Never mind—they’ll get done. We won’t think about them. Anything else?”
“Lots, I’m certain. What if the sheep get foot-rot, and the hens develop pip? Or is it the other way round? Could you manage a hen with foot-rot?”
“Just as well as you would handle a sheep with pip. What are they, anyhow?”
“Diseases which have always been happily obscure to me,” he said, “Now we’ll have to study them.”
“We’ll study them together, then,” said his wife; “then, if they appear we can turn on them our united batteries of knowledge. There must be lots of other diseases, Tom. Is it hens that get glanders?”
“Very probably: it always seemed to me that hens have nasty habits,” said he. “Of course, I’ve only looked at them with a kind of semi-detached eye, but then, I never felt any inclination for close acquaintance with a live fowl. My soul was as a star, and dwelt apart!”
“I think one of the first things you had better do would be to uproot any graceful notions about your soul,” said his wife. “We shan’t need encumbrances like that for some time. Stout bodies and strong muscles are likely to be more in our line; don’t be surprised or shocked if you find me writhing in odd corners, because it will be only Swedish drill, to develop me—also in odd corners!”
“It will be awfully interesting,” he said, laughing. “Couldn’t you start it now? I believe there’s one lovely exercise that you do at meal-times. Strangers are apt to run to your assistance, thinking you’re strangling, but it’s only neck-drill, to give you a long, slender throat!”
“I’ve always faintly hoped mine pleased you,” rejoined his wife. “However, it’s too late now—it won’t matter in the Bush if one has a throat or not. My energies are going to enable me to develop strength enough to throw a bag of wheat over my shoulder, and go whistling down the lea!”
“Why not bring it home? I don’t see why you want to throw good wheat about, after I shall probably have had grave trouble in growing it. And what is a lea, anyhow?”
“It’s something the lowing herd winds slowly o’er,” she said. “You ought to know that.”
“I did, but I don’t know what it looks like. And I suppose I’ll have to know.” The laughter died out of his eyes, and he looked at her in silence for a moment. “Aileen—it’s all very well to play the fool, but we’re two horribly ignorant people. I wonder if we’ll do any good at all?”
“Yes—we will,” she said stubbornly. “And I don’t mean to stop playing the fool: at least I hope I won’t have to. Think of poor old Garth, if we grew old and solemn! We’ll just back each other up and worry through. We’re in a pretty tight place, but we’re not going to pull long faces over it. I suppose sometimes things will get bothersome, and we’ll be tired, and possibly our tempers may become a bit ragged at the edges. But we’ll understand, and not remember it against each other next day.”
“Nor next minute, I hope,” he said. “Well, a man would be a cur if he were afraid to face things with any one like you.”
“Don’t you expect too much of me,” said his wife. “I’m an ignorant old thing, as you’ve justly pointed out, and when you have indigestion through my bad cooking you’ll dislike me extremely. But I’ll improve. Now come and we’ll tell Garth all about it.”