BOYS AND GIRLS TOGETHER.
Though he counted the Doctor’s son as first and chief, Austin
undoubtedly had plenty of friends; and since the time of his coming
to Woodend he had done his best to prepare the way for Frances by
industriously singing her praises. The young people who had managed
hitherto to exist in the village without either Austin or Frances
might have been severely bored but for the agreeable curiosity roused
by Austin’s descriptions of his absent sister. The Woodend boys were
really anxious to make the acquaintance of so remarkable a girl. The
Woodend lassies, having a good opinion of Austin, were willing to
expect great things of Austin’s sister. Both boys and girls indulged
the hope that the new-comer into their little world might rouse in it
some pleasant stir.
They knew that they needed badly a stimulus of some sort to give fresh
energy to their rather monotonous lives. They had their games and
pastimes, like other youngsters; but these suffered in attraction for
want of competition. The cricket-team and tennis-club rarely found
rivals with whom they might contend in honourable warfare. Woodend was
not exactly remote; but it had a special population of upper-class
residents, who loved its pure air and fine scenery, and had no
neighbours of like tastes and habits in the villages near at hand. The
young folks played and worked contentedly enough among themselves as
a rule; but they were growing just a little tired of each other, and
there was nobody to lead.
The girls--poor things!--were in worst case. The boys, when they had
turned fourteen or fifteen, were usually sent to a public school. The
girls remained at home, with so much time on their hands that they
could not even enjoy the luxury of being idle--it was too common an
experience.
The Carlyons--Edward and Muriel--were working, in part, a reformation.
Edward Carlyon, Master of Arts of Oxford University, had established
a small private school for boys; Muriel Carlyon, sometime student of
Girton College, and graduate of London, had done as much for the girls.
The Woodend youngsters of good degree flocked to Wood Bank,--formerly
the home of an artist,--where Edward taught his boys in the big,
dismantled studio, and Muriel consecrated a couple of fair-sized rooms
to her girls. The coming of Austin Morland, who, though only in his
twelfth year, had a certain talent for leadership, had waked up the
boys’ schoolroom, and plans for the summer holidays had been more
ambitious than usual.
Frances could not do anything striking for the girls’ schoolrooms at
present, since they were shut, and their presiding genius was away from
home. But Austin’s sister, finding herself welcomed in a fashion which
showed how unstinted had been Austin’s recommendations, was determined
to do her best to justify his loyalty. She was soon the happy potentate
of an acquiescent kingdom, and honestly anxious to make good use of
her unexpected influence. Besides being the leader in every frolic,
she tried to interest herself in everybody’s hobbies and everybody’s
fancies.
Most of her new friends belonged to one or other of the many juvenile
organizations which now make a real effort--whose value may be
appreciated by social economists of a later date--to concern themselves
in the welfare of the poor and suffering. Frances had caught from her
elder comrades at Haversfield a girlish enthusiasm for this kind of
toil. She threw herself warmly into the diversions of Florry Fane’s
set--who could understand poetry, dabble in oil and water colours, and
write stories. She dressed dolls for Betty Turner’s hospital box, she
collected butterflies and beetles with Guy Gordon, she studied rabbits
with Frank Temple, she joined the Children’s Orchestra and was a great
admirer of the First Violin.
But the best of Frances’s heart went into her promised alliance with
Max Brenton. Max was the blithest boy in all Woodend, by far the
busiest and the most popular. Even Austin Morland, bright of face and
gay of manner as was the lad, could not, and would not, have stepped
into the place filled by Max. Meet the Doctor’s son when and where you
might, you were bound to feel happier for having done so.
Elveley was the largest house in Woodend proper; it possessed ample
garden ground, and neat outbuildings in the rear. Its possessor had
usually been the person of most importance in the village, and thus
the coming of the new owner had been awaited with curiosity. Mrs.
Morland had been at some pains to send in advance her credentials as
to family and position. She was a woman who placed extravagant value
on social esteem, and she had voluntarily stunted her intelligence and
narrowed her views for fear of perilling her own prestige by shocking
any antique prejudice in her neighbours. She had not much sympathy with
the special affairs of childhood; but when she turned aside from her
individual interests to see how matters went with her boy and girl, she
generally found reason for complacency.
Now that she had settled in Woodend, it was in harmony with her wishes
and instincts that Frances should be to the girls such a leader as
Mrs. Morland had become to their elders, and that Austin’s careless
good-humour should assure his popularity. If her children had been
dull and commonplace, she would have felt herself an injured person.
Because they were neither, she was ready to be indulgent and compliant.
They had plenty of pocket-money, and were seldom refused a petition;
and though they rarely spent with their mother more than an hour or
so in the day, their food and clothing were carefully attended to by
responsible people, and their education was the best within reach.
Frances and Austin were not aware that they missed anything; and they
nourished for their mother a love which, if it depended rather on
tradition than on fact, was sufficiently real to make their home dear
and fairly bright.
The big playroom in Mrs. Morland’s delightful old house soon became
the headquarters of every juvenile institution. Cricket, football, and
tennis clubs kept their archives in its table-drawers; its shelves
harboured a choice lending-library, contributed to by every owner of a
story-book; its corners saw the hatching of every plot, harmless or
mischievous. Further, it was within its walls that Frances--intent at
first only on aiding Max, but with wider ambition by and by--founded
and maintained her prosperous club, the Woodend Society of Altruists.
“I hope the name is fine enough,” remarked Austin critically.
“You don’t think it sounds priggish?” inquired Frances in alarm. “It’s
what the Haversfield girls called their club, and I thought we might
just copy.”
“Of course, it’s a first-rate name,” declared Max kindly.
“What are Altruists?” asked in humble tones a small and rosy-cheeked
boy.
“They are only people who try to help others,” replied Frances; and
this simple explanation, given with a gentle sincerity of voice and
manner, seemed to satisfy everybody. Indeed, everybody present at a
fairly representative meeting of the Woodend young folks became an
Altruist on the spot.
“What have we got to do?” said the rosy-cheeked boy anxiously.
“Sign our names in the book of the Society and keep the rules,” said
Florry Fane. “Frances must sign hers first, because she’s the founder
of the club.”
“Florry and I have written down the rules we thought might do,” said
Frances modestly, “Florry is going to read them out, and then if any
boy or girl will suggest improvements we shall be very much obliged.”
But nobody wished to improve the excellent rules drawn up by Frances
and Florry. The words in which the Altruist Code was expressed were
few, and so well chosen that no careless member could pretend either to
have forgotten or to have misunderstood.
In becoming an Altruist everybody undertook to do his or her very
best to lighten the loads of dwellers within or without the gates of
happy Woodend homes. This was an ambitiously comprehensive scheme,
but nothing less thorough would suit Frances and her allies. Nor did
they intend that their new club should exist only on paper; and so
their rules provided that by appropriate deeds alone could a continued
membership be ensured.
The boys and girls were so truly in want of a fresh sensation to give
zest to their holiday hours that they were in some danger of riding
their new hobby-horse to death. The Altruists grew in number and
flourished exceedingly. They found their parents ready with approval
and support; and when they had passed through an embryo stage of rash
philanthropic excitement, they settled down into a capital club, whose
motto of “Help Others” was something more than a vain boast. Of course
the new Society must have funds--how otherwise provide for necessary
outlay? Members loyally sacrificed a percentage of pocket-money, which
was liberally reinforced--at the instigation of Mrs. Morland--by adult
subscriptions. The mothers of young Altruists searched their cupboards
for old linen, blankets, and clothing, wherewith to start the Society’s
stores. The fathers promised that appeals for fruit and flowers should
have their best consideration. Dr. Brenton sent word through Max that
he would accept as a “gratis” patient any sick person tended and
cared for by an Altruist. Mrs. Morland, well pleased that Frances
should enjoy the prestige owing to a founder, sent for a carpenter, and
desired him to make any alterations the children might order, with the
view of rendering their playroom satisfactory Headquarters for their
club.
As soon as the Carlyons came home, Muriel was waited on by a deputation
of her girls, who wanted her to be Honorary President of the Altruists.
Miss Carlyon was very ready to agree, and to give Frances credit for a
really bright idea.
“I don’t see why your club shouldn’t do ever such great things for the
Woodend poor folk,” declared Muriel warmly. “I shall be proud to be one
of you, and so will my brother; and you must count on us for all the
help we can give.”
“Oh, Miss Carlyon!” said Frances shyly, “we thought perhaps we might
just help _you_--a little.”
“We’ll help each other, dear. And then we shall be Altruists among
ourselves. I can assure you, I think, besides being useful, we shall be
very jolly.”
And so it proved. None of the club meetings were more spirited or
more mirthful than those at which the Honorary President made her
appearance; and the frequent presence of Edward Carlyon encouraged
his boys to stand firmly by the Society, and to lose all fear that
they were “benevolent prigs”, as they had been called by Jack Shorter.
Jack was the only one of Carlyon’s boys who had possessed sufficient
unamiability to remain outside the club. At last, finding himself
sent to Coventry, Jack repented and became an embarrassingly active
Altruist.
When the Wood Bank schoolrooms opened their doors for the autumn
term, it was discovered that the Carlyons intended their support to
be anything but “honorary”. They had fitted up a large basement room
as a workshop for various handicrafts, and there the boys and girls
learned to make all sorts of things for the Society’s stores. Out of
doors, a shed held all kinds of necessary tools, and the young folks
studied practical gardening, with intent to aid such villagers as might
own neglected plots. Sewing-meetings produced a wonderful collection
of garments, new and renovated, which helped to fill Frances’s
clothing-cupboard. The juvenile choir and orchestra made free offers
of their services; and lads and lassies with a talent for “reading and
recitation” were in enormous request.
Frances’s days were busy and happy. She enjoyed her school-work
with Muriel Carlyon, a teacher of the class to which she had grown
accustomed at Haversfield. Muriel’s system of teaching was not without
originality; and her love of outdoor occupations hindered her from
possessing the traditional characteristics of a blue-stocking. Her
brother Edward was a muscular, well-built young Englishman, whose
college triumphs had not prevented respectable attainments with scull
and bat. The Carlyons took a lively interest in their pupils, whom they
treated and trained with a success which would have astonished primmer
pedagogues. Their boys and girls trooped to school together, and often
measured wits or muscles in their class-rooms or their play-grounds.
Thus their friendships were closer and more sympathetic than those of
lads and lassies usually are. They learned to appreciate one another’s
tastes and dispositions, and to sacrifice individual whims to the
common good.
Autumn drifted into winter with the coming of a bleak November.
Football and hockey were in full swing in the playing-fields. The
little ones had built their first snow-man; and the rubbing and oiling
of skates followed careful studies of the barometer. The youngsters
were now in some danger of forgetting the duties of their Society.
Their time had suddenly assumed an incalculable value.
It was at this stage of affairs that Max Brenton one day made his
appearance at the door of the club-room, wherein sat Frances busily
posting up the Society’s accounts.
“If you please,” began Max in a great hurry, “may I have a blanket, two
flannel petticoats, a three-year-old frock, and a pair of very large
old boots?”
Frances wrinkled her forehead. “I’m sorry we have no flannel petticoats
left, owing to a great demand. I can manage the other things, except
the boots. We are quite out of very large boots. Couldn’t one of you
boys learn shoemaking?”
“I fancy that would be a little rough on the village cobbler.”
“But the cobbler will do nothing he is not paid for; and poor folks
cannot always pay. It would be very useful to have a shoemaker of our
very own. We could buy our leather and make it into enormous boots.
Gentleman-boots are really hardly any good to us.”
“That’s true. But, please, may I have the things? And I will try my
best to persuade somebody to learn shoemaking.”
Frances rose, and stepped thoughtfully towards her cupboard. Thence,
after some searching, she extracted a tiny garment of crimson serge,
warmly lined and neatly finished. To this she added two pairs of
knitted socks of the same cheerful hue.
“Oh, I say!” exclaimed Max, radiant. “May I really have these awfully
swell things? You girls are bricks!”
“You boys helped to buy the stuff. I’m glad you like the colour,”
continued Frances graciously, “because at the last sewing-meeting of
our Society we decided that for the future all the clothing we make
shall be scarlet or crimson, if it can be. It was Florry Fane’s idea.
She said it would be ‘the badge of all our tribe’. We shall be able to
tell our pensioners the moment we see them. For instance, next time I
meet the little child who is to have this frock, I shall think, ‘There
goes an Altruist baby!’”
“I see. And next time I come across a hoary old chap to whom you’ve
given a crimson comforter, I shall say, ‘There goes an Altruist
antediluvian!’”
“Well,” laughed Frances, “suppose you do? You’ll allow that our colour
is becoming. It’s bright and picturesque; and by and by, when we’ve
given away lots of crimson things, think how gay Woodend will look.”
“Oh, it will! As soon as a visitor reaches the favoured spot, he’ll
cry, ‘Hullo! here’s an Altruist village!’”
“I hope he may. Now, tell me whom these things are for, because I must
put the names down in our clothing book.”
Max, remembering certain private labours of his own, gazed in
admiration at Frances’s neat records.
“The frock is for Polly Baker, child of Joseph Baker, a dweller in
Lumber’s Yard, and sometime a tiller of the fields.”
Frances paused, her pen uplifted, and a serious expression on her face.
“But, Max, Miss Carlyon says the Altruists oughtn’t to help people
who won’t help themselves. That Joseph Baker is a lazy, selfish,
good-for-nothing.”
“I know the gentleman. You’ve described him mildly.”
“And Mr. Carlyon has got him work over and over again, but he always
loses it.”
“No wonder, the drunken scamp!” muttered Max under his breath.
“He is as bad as he can be.”
“True, dear Madam Altruist. But that isn’t the fault of his daughter
Polly, aged three.”
“Still, if Baker finds he can get his children fed and clothed for
nothing, he will go on spending all his money in that dreadful inn in
Lumber’s Yard.”
“He will go on doing that anyhow. Mr. Carlyon isn’t easily beaten, but
he has given up Joseph Baker, Esquire. Meanwhile, Baker’s children
would starve if it were not for charity. Frances, Polly is such a game
little thing! You wouldn’t believe how she stands up to her brute of a
father when she sees him ill-treat her mother. I’ve delivered her out
of Baker’s clutches more than once.”
Frances gazed at the speaker, her eyes widely-opened and horrified.
“Max! You don’t mean he would hurt that baby?”
“Wouldn’t he? Doesn’t he, if he gets the chance? He’s a--a--beast! Beg
pardon!”
“It’s fearful!” sighed Frances, pausing perforce on the threshold
of the social problem which had risen before her. “He ought to be
punished.”
“He will be, when I’m big enough to thrash him,” murmured Max; and
Frances turned a face flushed with sympathy to this chivalrous lad.
“But don’t let us punish our Altruist baby.”
“Oh, Max! When you wheedle--,” said the Altruist secretary, shaking
her head. “Here are your things, and you must be responsible. Now, in
return for your pleasant news about Baker, I’ll tell you something
really nice. I have added up our funds, and I find we have quite a lot
of money; so I am getting ready a list of ‘wants’, and to-morrow we
will have a shopping expedition. We girls shall need large supplies
of scarlet flannel and crimson serge to make into clothing for our
Christmas presents. You boys are sure to require things for your
workshops. We will take the pony-carriage and drive into Exham. As
to-morrow will be Saturday, not many Altruists will care to leave the
playing-fields; but you will come, won’t you, Max?”
“If Dad doesn’t want me.”
“And there will be Austin and Florry--four of us. You and Austin can
get the things for your own work while Florry and I buy yards and yards
of flannel and serge and calico.”
“Will there be room for us boys in the trap coming home?” inquired Max
meekly. “I’d like to know whether, if the cargo weighs down the pony,
you mean to sacrifice us or the flannel?”
“You, of course!”
“Then I’d better bring provisions for camping out. There’s a fall of
the barometer, and all the village weather-prophets tell me we are to
have snow; besides, there’s some rough road between here and Exham.
Look out for storms to-morrow, Frances! Now, I’ll be off with my booty.
Baker sold to a fellow-cad the last frock I begged for Polly; but I’ll
dare him to touch this beauty. Keep your eyes open, and they’ll be
gladdened by the sight of the Altruist baby!”
Max went away happy. All his father’s poor patients enjoyed his
personal attentions, and not a few considered the Doctor’s son as good
an adviser as the Doctor himself. Max tried to be discreet, but his
boyish habit of telling the unvarnished truth to any village sneak or
bully sometimes brought him into awkward predicaments.