MUSIC AND MUMMING.
It was December the twenty-third, and two o’clock in the afternoon.
Frances and Austin had finished their early dinner at their mother’s
luncheon-table, and were hurrying down the road to the school-house,
where, by grace of the Rector, the Altruists’ entertainment was to be
given.
“We still have plenty to do,” exclaimed Frances a little breathlessly,
for the brother and sister were walking at a rapid pace. “The benches
have to be arranged, and the tables laid, and I have one more wig to
make for the ‘Ten Little Niggers’.”
“Gramercy!” exclaimed Austin; “did I not count ten heads, and ten wigs
on the heads, at the dress rehearsal yesterday?”
“Teddy’s was not a proper wig,” sighed Frances. “You know Teddy has not
a mother--or even an aunt, or a cousin, or an old nurse--to do anything
of that sort for him. His father’s housekeeper is a horrid cross old
thing, who would not have let Teddy act at all if she could have helped
it. So I waylaid Mr. Bevers, and made him promise that Teddy should do
anything I liked; and then Florry and I saw to his dresses between us.
That is how Teddy comes to be a little nigger, and a baker-boy, and a
fairy-page. He is such a darling, and he sings like a cherub. We wanted
him ever so badly.”
“Girls always contrive to get what they want. They just peg away till
they do. I will say, though, Frances, that they don’t mind going to any
amount of trouble about it. Fancy making three dresses for one little
shaver!”
“The baker-boy dress isn’t much--just a cap and apron,--and the little
nigger was easy. The pink satin fairy-page was different, of course.
Teddy and Gus, in pink and blue, look sweet.”
“They are rather fetching,” condescended Austin. “And Max’s idea of
letting Teddy and Lilla sing the opening duet was a jolly good one. I’m
not gone on babies, but Lilla’s a picture in that old-world thing her
mother has dressed her up in.”
“She’s a picture as a fairy too,” said Frances; “though I think the
minuet will be the most picturesque bit of the play. Florry is a lovely
fairy god-mother, isn’t she? I do think she’s clever enough to act at
the Lyceum!”
“The play’s the thing, undoubtedly, as Mr. Hamlet of Denmark remarked.
Just wait till you see our Travesty, though. I flatter myself we’ll
make Woodendites sit up. Max and I have worked out a splendid
blood-curdling duel, with that drop-lunge Mr. Carlyon taught us for a
finish. You didn’t see it at rehearsal yesterday?”
“No, I was called away; but I’m sure it will be capital. Max is funny,
as _Laertes_. And Frank Temple is a fine _King_. How lucky it is he had
that lovely dress of red velvet and ermine!”
“It is a real stage-dress. Frank had an uncle who went on the stage and
became a famous actor. The regal robes belonged to him.”
“Fancy! That is interesting. I wonder what he would say if he knew they
were going to be worn in the Hamlet Travesty.”
“He’d think it jolly cheek.”
“We never could have done the Travesty without Mr. Carlyon. Of course,
it was his plan that we should act it; so I suppose that’s why he has
been so much interested in it. And Miss Carlyon has stage-managed
Florry’s play for us: she said it was her duty as president of the
Altruists.--There’s Betty Turner, Austin. Make haste, and we’ll catch
her up.”
The active pair soon caught up Betty, who was exceedingly plump, and
was never seen in a hurry. She looked at her friends in mild amazement
as they pelted down the hill and pulled up one on each side of her.
“How you two do excite yourselves!” she observed languidly. “Francy’s
cheeks are as red as beet-root, and Austin will have no breath left for
his song.”
“We shouldn’t enjoy anything if we didn’t get enthusiastic!” laughed
Frances. “And isn’t this the great occasion--the Altruists’ field-day?”
“I shall have to leave the club, you make me so hot!” chuckled Betty.
“I feel like building a snow-man when I look at you. At least, somebody
else might build him for me, while I watched. The sensation would be
equally cooling.”
“And not nearly so fatiguing,” said Austin. “Won’t you enjoy filling a
hundred tea-cups twice over, Betty?”
“Catch me, indeed! I sha’n’t do the pouring out--that’s for May and
Violet. They like it. Especially May. She has a genius for mathematics,
and will be able to solve the problem of how many spoonfuls of tea to
the pot, and how many pots to the tea-tableful of old women.”
“Give ’em plenty,” urged Austin. “Tibby Prout told me she hadn’t tasted
tea this winter.”
“Tibby Prout!” repeated Betty meditatively. “I’ll keep my eye on Tibby:
she shall have six cups. Just write her name here, Austin.” Betty
pulled a notebook and pencil from her pocket. “It is so tiring to
remember names.”
“You’ll have to remember to look in your notebook; and then you’ll have
to remember why the name of Tibby Prout is written there; and then
you’ll have to remember why I, and not you, have written it.”
“So I shall!” agreed Betty mournfully; and with an air of great
depression she turned in at the school-house gate.
“‘A plump and pleasing person’,” whispered Austin mischievously in his
sister’s ear. “It’s a good thing she’s amiable, as there’s so much of
her!”
The boy ran off, laughing, to greet Max, who was just coming up to the
gate. In his company came “Harry” the giant, a broad grin on his stolid
face.
“See whom I’ve brought!” exclaimed Max, when greetings and confidences
had passed between the chums. “You needn’t worry any longer about the
benches, Frances. Harry has promised to arrange them all, just as you
like.”
“That is kind of you, Harry,” said the girl, looking at the rustic with
the frank kindliness which acted like a charm on her poorer neighbours,
and made them her faithful allies. “I just wanted somebody very strong
and rather patient. It will take a good while to move the benches, but
it would have taken the boys twice as long as it will take you.”
“Never fear, Miss,” said the giant heartily; “I’ll turn this ’ere place
upside-down in ’arf an hour, if so be as you want it.”
Then they all set busily to work. The school-house contained one large
room, of which the upper part possessed a platform which was used
for all sorts of village entertainments, such as penny-readings and
magic-lantern shows. The young Altruist carpenters had rigged-up a
plain screen of wood above and at the sides of the platform, and this,
when hung with drapery, took the place of a proscenium, and was fitted
with a curtain which would draw up and down. There were two entrances,
right and left of the stage, and simple appliances to hold the simple
scenery. Not much scope was given, perhaps, for elaborate effects; but
Miss Carlyon as stage-manager, and Florry as dramatist, had used their
wits, and some of their contrivances were wonderfully ingenious. They
had availed themselves, too, of such opportunities as were offered by
the command of a passage running from one stage-door to the other,
outside the room. Here they marshalled their processions, and assembled
their hidden choir, and even found room for one or two members of the
orchestra when these were wanted to discourse music at moving moments
of the performances.
Owing to the length of the programme, the proceedings were to begin at
four o’clock, with a generous tea. Before the hour arrived the Carlyons
made their appearance, and were immediately in the thick of everything.
Edward, his long coat flying behind him, dashed hither and thither in
response to agonized calls from boys in difficulties; while Muriel
gave helping hands to her girls, until the preparations for tea were
complete.
Every Altruist wore a crimson badge, and a similar one was presented
to every guest on entrance. The stage-hangings were crimson; the
Christmas greetings hung up on the walls were fashioned in crimson
letters on a white ground. Of course the room was prettily decorated
with green-stuffs and berries, and the long tables grouped in the
background were ornamented with lovely flowers. Altogether, the aspect
of the room was distinctly festive when, as the clock struck four, the
doors were thrown open and the guests began to pour in. Men, women, and
children--all had been invited; and for once the denizens of Lumber’s
Yard mingled with the better-class cottagers. Bell Baker, still pale,
and poorly-clad, was brought under the care of the Doctor himself, who
had borrowed a bath-chair, and packed his suffering charge into it.
With Bell came her three eldest children; the baby was being cared
for by an enterprising cottage-woman, who had decided to stay at home
from the Altruist Feast and “take in” babies at a penny the head! The
resulting fortune in shillings was a satisfactory consolation to her
for the loss of her treat.
The Altruist fund might have fallen short of the demands made on
it for the expenses of the grand entertainment, had it not been
amply supplemented by those well-to-do inhabitants of Woodend who
were interested in the undertaking. The feasts proper--both tea and
supper--were “entirely provided by voluntary contributions”, as Frances
had proudly announced at the last meeting of the Society. The rector
offered fifty pounds of beef; Miss Carlyon’s cookery-class made a score
of plum-puddings and a hundred mince-pies, the materials coming from
the kitchens of Altruists’ mothers; the oranges and apples and almonds
and raisins, with such trifles as bon-bons and sweets, were sent in
by various Altruists’ fathers. Mrs. Morland promised fifty pounds of
cake, and as Austin was allowed to do the ordering it was as plummy as
Christmas cake knows how to be. In this way gifts rapidly mounted up;
and by the time it became necessary to reckon up the funds, Frances
found that she had only sugar to provide!
This was very cheering to the young leader of the Altruists, who had
dreaded having to check the bounding ambition of her associates.
The sewing-meetings had done great things with scarlet flannel and
crimson wool; but in this direction, also, the grown-ups were kind.
Mrs. Morland, who had quietly assumed the headship of Woodend society,
dropped polite hints at dinner-parties and distributed confidences at
“At Homes”. It became generally understood that all contributions of
new and useful clothing would be thankfully received in the club-room.
Perhaps Mrs. Morland’s patronage did less for the cause than did the
popularity of her daughter. Frances was everybody’s favourite; and the
pleasure of receiving her earnest thanks, and seeing the joyful light
in her grave gray eyes, sent many a Woodend matron and maid to the
making of shirts.
The Carlyons had determined privately to run no risk of usurping the
credit which belonged of right to the originators of the entertainment;
and they kept very much behind the scenes during the evening, except
when sharing the labours of the party told off to preserve order and
see that all the guests were comfortably placed. Tea over, and the
tables cleared, the orchestra struck up a lively medley of popular
tunes, while the company were ranged on the benches that Harry had set
in two rows, facing the stage, in the upper part of the long room.
Behind these benches was a small space, and then a few rows of chairs
for the families and friends of the Altruists, who were to be permitted
to view the performances in consideration of their liberal help.
When all were seated, and quiet reigned in the neighbourhood of the
empty tea-tables, the orchestra ceased to make melody, and Miss
Carlyon, slipping round from the back, took her place before the
piano, the fifteen-year-old Pianist of the band retiring modestly to
a three-legged stool that she shared with the fourteen-year-old First
Violin. The footlights were turned up, the gas in the auditorium was
turned down; on the whole audience fell the hush of expectancy. Miss
Carlyon played a few bars of a simple children’s song; then the curtain
swayed backward a little to allow two performers to step before it.
[Illustration:
M432
“A STORY WE BRING YOU FROM FAËRY LAND.”]
First came Teddy Bevers, beautiful to behold in his pink satin tunic
trimmed with swansdown, lace ruffles, pink silk stockings, and buckled
shoes. His dark curls bobbed merrily all over his little head, as,
holding his pink hat with its white plume behind him, he bowed low
to another small figure tripping after him. Lilla Turner was a tiny,
slender maiden, just the opposite of plump Betty, her sister and slave;
she wore a short petticoat of quilted white satin, and a Watteau bodice
and panier of white and gold brocade. Lilla returned Teddy’s bow with
a sweeping curtsey, then took his offered hand, and the little pair
paced solemnly to the front and made a profound salute to the
audience. Both sang prettily; and Miss Carlyon’s careful teaching had
given them a clear enunciation, which made the words of their prologue
audible throughout the room:
“A story we bring you from Faëry Land,
A story of gallant, and maiden, and sprite;
And we ask you to lend us a favouring hand,
While we tell it, and sing it, and act it to-night.
List, list to our story of maiden and fay,
Of prince, knight, and peasant; oh, listen, we pray!”
Teddy and Lilla continued, through three verses, to entreat the
indulgence of an audience already disposed to be more than kind; then
the salutes were sedately repeated, and the little couple vanished
amid enraptured applause. The beauty and grace of the small actors
had warmed the hearts of the workaday folk to whom they sang, and the
Woodend villagers demanded an encore with all their hands and tongues.
The programme was long enough already; and, besides, Florry’s sense
of dramatic fitness made her look on a repetition of her prologue as
something like barbarism. So Teddy and Lilla were told to go on again
and bow their acknowledgments; which they did, kissing their hands ere
they finally retired.
They had paved the way admirably for the others, and the fairy play was
throughout a brilliant success. The curtain was rung down on a most
picturesque tableau, while Max burned red fire at the wings, and the
orchestra discoursed sweet music. Three times the curtain was raised
before the audience would be satisfied; and even then there were calls
for the “author”, and Florry was pulled on to the stage by a group of
enthusiastic little fairies.
A big sigh of satisfaction seemed to come from everybody; and the
onlookers were still assuring each other that nothing could beat the
fairy play, when the orchestra struck up a familiar melody. All the
boys on the benches began to hum appreciatively; and the curtain slowly
rose, while across the stage in a couple of bounds sprang the First
Little Nigger. His age was twelve, his face and hands were sooty-black;
he wore a costume of scarlet-and-white striped cotton jacket, green
knickerbockers, one scarlet and one white stocking, a white collar of
enormous proportions, and a lovely horse-hair wig. After him came his
nine brothers, in similar raiment, and in gradations of size, which
ended in Teddy Bevers, who informed his hearers that he was the “Tenth
Little Nigger Boy!”
Mr. Carlyon had written a new version of the historic ditty--a version
strictly topical, and full of harmless local allusions, which won peals
of laughter from the benches. The actors had been taught some amusing
by-play; and their antics drew shrieks of delight from small boys
and girls, who had gaped in uncomprehending wonderment at the Fairy
Godmother. It was of no use to try to refuse an encore for the Ten
Little Niggers, so Mr. Carlyon sent them on again to repeat their fun
and frolic for the benefit of the little ones in front.
The niggers had brought the younger portion of the audience into such
an uproarious condition that the feelings of the First Violin were
sadly tried by the hubbub amid which she stepped on to the platform.
But now, if ever, Woodend was on its good behaviour; and, as the
elders wanted to “hear the music”, they coaxed and scolded the juniors
into a restless silence. However, the melting strains of Raff’s
“Cavatina” were not beyond the appreciation of anybody; and those
who did not admire her plaintive performance for its own sake, were
full of wonder at the skill of the First Violin. The next item on the
programme was a vocal duet by Frances and her brother. Austin sang well
in a charmingly fresh treble, with which his sister’s alto blended
very prettily; and the pair had practised most conscientiously. This
was the only number of the programme in which Frances’s name appeared.
The girl had declined to be put down for anything which would give her
prominence, because she knew her mother would prefer to see Austin to
the fore, and Frances had a delicate instinct which warned her not to
court jealousy by claiming too much for the Morland family. Austin had
played one of the best parts in the fairy piece, was to play _Hamlet_
in some scenes selected by Mr. Carlyon from Poole’s “Travesty”, and
besides his duet with Frances, had a solo to sing. Nobody grudged the
bright, good-natured boy his many appearances, but Frances felt that
they ought to suffice for both.
The concert swung gaily on its way. The First Little Nigger, still
sooty of face and brilliant of attire, sang _Hard times come again no
more_ to his own banjo accompaniment, and was rewarded by the sight
of many pocket-handkerchiefs surreptitiously drawn forth. There was
a flute solo from Guy Gordon, a musician whose fancy usually hovered
between the jew’s-harp and the concertina; but on this occasion he
gave a “Romance” for his more classical instrument, and moved to
emulation every rustic owner of a penny whistle. Three little lads,
dressed as sailor-boys, were immensely popular in a nautical ditty,
which cast a general defiance at everybody who might presume to dispute
the sovereignty of _The Mistress of the Sea_; and three little girls
with three little brooms joined in a _Housemaid’s Complaint_, which set
forth in touching terms the sufferings of domestics who were compelled
to be up by ten, and to dine on cold mutton and fried potatoes. Songs,
humorous and pathetic, filled up the concert programme, until it
terminated in a costume chorus, _How to make a Cake_.
This item was an exemplification of the picturesque possibilities
of familiar things. A table in the middle of the stage was presided
over by Betty, attired in print frock, cap, and apron. In front of
her on the table stood a big basin. To her entered a train of boy and
girl cooks, carrying aloft bags and plates containing materials for
cake-making. A lively song, descriptive of the action, accompanied
Betty’s demonstration of the results of her cookery studies; the cake
was mixed, kneaded, disposed of in a tin, and proudly borne off to an
imaginary stove by Guy Gordon, the biggest baker. The song continued,
descriptive of the delightful anticipations of the cake-makers; and
when Guy returned carrying a huge plum-cake, this was promptly cut into
slices by Betty and distributed among her helpers, who, munching under
difficulties, marched round the stage to a triumphant chorus of “_We’ll
show you how to eat it!_”
Max was to appear as _Laertes_ in the Travesty, and had hitherto taken
no more distinguished part in the entertainment than the playing of
what it pleased him to call “twentieth fiddle” in the orchestra.
But he now found greatness thrust upon him. No sooner had the cooks
acknowledged their call and vanished, than Harry the giant uprose in
his place, and boldly addressed Mr. Carlyon.
“Axing parding, sir, if I may make so bold, there’s some of us ’ere--me
and my mates--wot knows as ’ow the young Doc’ can sing a rare good
song. And we takes the liberty of askin’ Master Max to favour us.”
Harry’s speech created an immediate sensation; but his sentiments
were upheld by prolonged applause from his “mates” and the audience
generally.
Edward Carlyon successfully maintained a strict impartiality in his
dealings with his pupils; but in his heart of hearts he kept a special
corner for Max Brenton. Well pleased with Harry’s request, he leant
towards the “twentieth fiddle”, and said:
“You hear, Max? You’re honoured by a distinct invitation; so up with
you to the platform and let’s hear what you can do!”
Max, covered with blushes, was pushed forward by the entire orchestra,
while Carlyon seated himself in front of the piano.
“What shall it be, lad?--_The Old Brigade_, I think. Muriel, will you
tell the boys and girls behind to provide Max with a chorus?”
Max plucked up courage, and obeyed. His slight figure, in its trim Eton
suit, stood out bravely on the platform, reminding Harry and one or
two others of another evening when the boy had sung “against time” to
save a woman from suffering.
All the Altruists knew _The Old Brigade_, and had chimed in with a
chorus many a time when the Carlyons’ young choristers had held their
merry practices in the boys’ school-room. So the gallant song went
with splendid spirit, and when it reached its last verse the chorus
was reinforced by the greater number of the audience, who proceeded
rapturously to encore themselves.
Max’s song was an excellent finish to the concert; and then the
onlookers were allowed a few minutes to recover their breath and
discuss the performance, while the stage was made ready for the
Travesty.
In front reigned mirth, satisfaction, and pleasing hopes of more good
things to come. Behind, the aspect of affairs had changed suddenly. At
the end of Max’s song a letter was handed to Carlyon, whose face, as he
read, became a proclamation of disaster. He was in the little room at
the end of the passage, which had been made ready for the use of the
performers when off the platform; and round him had gathered the boys
and girls who were to figure in the Travesty.
“Bad news, youngsters,” said Carlyon dismally. “The first hitch in
our evening’s entertainment. I wondered why Frank Temple was so late
in arriving. This letter--which evidently ought to have reached me
before--is to tell me that Mr. and Mrs. Temple have been summoned by
telegram to Mr. Temple’s home, where his father is lying dangerously
ill. The boy was named in the telegram--his grandfather had asked
for him; so of course he has gone with his parents. Now,” continued
Carlyon, looking at the blank faces before him, “I know that all of you
will feel very much for Frank; but just at present we must think also
of the poor folk in the school-room, who are waiting patiently for your
appearance. What shall we do? Shall we give up the Travesty? Or will
someone go on and read the part of the _King_?”
“Oh, don’t stop the play! Let’s act!” cried some.
“Max and Austin’s fencing-match is so funny!” cried others.
“Well, I think myself we ought to proceed, and do our best. The
question is, who can read the _King_? It must be someone who knows
something about the piece--”
“Frances!” exclaimed Max immediately. “Frances has been at all the
rehearsals; and she has often read the _King’s_ part when she was
hearing Austin and me say ours!”
Frances at first held back; but when she saw that she was really the
best person to fill the breach, she made no more ado, but began to look
about for a costume.
“If only Frank had thought of sending his,” said Max, regretful of
the crimson velvet and ermine. “It would have done quite nicely for
Frances. The tunic would have covered her frock.”
“We can hardly borrow it without leave, though. Well, I must let you
settle the knotty point of costume for yourselves, youngsters, while I
help my sister with the stage.”
Carlyon rushed off, nodding encouragingly to Frances, who had her eyes
on the play-book and on every corner of the room in turn. Suddenly she
darted over to a table covered by a crimson cloth.
“Hurrah!” she cried. “Here’s my tunic. A little ingenuity will soon
drape it gracefully about my kingly person.”
Frances had seized the table-cover; and now, amid peals of laughter,
she began, with Austin’s assistance, to pin herself into it. Max
vanished from the room, returning in three minutes with two articles
borrowed from friends among the Altruists’ relations in the audience.
“See, Frances! This fur-lined cape will make you a lovely cloak, and
this fur tippet, put on back to front, will be your regal collar. About
your neck and waist we will dispose the fairy prince’s gold chains, and
he shall lend you his sword, likewise his cap.”
“Not his cap,” amended Austin, who was dancing a triumphant jig round
his sister. “Frank left his crown here yesterday after rehearsal, and
Frances can wear that.”
“And her sleeves will look all right. What a good thing your frock is
of black velvet, Frances!”
By the time the young costumiers had finished they had turned out quite
an effective _King_. Frances’s dark hair, waving to her shoulders, was
pronounced “a first-rate wig” when the regal crown had been fitted
on. The Carlyons declared the new _King_ to be admirably attired; and
Frances, relieved of anxiety about her costume, entered fully into the
fun.
“I’m a ‘king of shreds and patches’ like Shakespeare’s man,” she
chuckled; “but so long as my various garments hold together, I don’t
mind! Max, if I could get a few minutes to look through this long
speech, I believe I could manage without the book. I’ve heard Frank say
his part ever so often.”
“You’ve helped everybody, Frances,” said Max, remembering gratefully
his own indebtedness, “and now you’re going to shine yourself. You’ll
have time to read up your part before you go on.”
The spirit of true burlesque is rare among amateurs; but youngsters who
act for the fun of the thing, and not merely to “show off”, are often
capable of excellent comedy. Carlyon had chosen with care the boys
and girls who were to perform in the Travesty, and had trained them
sufficiently but not too much. Entering completely into the humour of
parody, one and all acted with plenty of vigour and without a trace
of self-consciousness. Max and Austin had arranged a serio-comic
fencing-match, which was brought to a melodramatic finish by a clever
rapier trick. Frances’s play with the poisoned cup sent Betty, the
lackadaisical _Queen_, into a series of private giggles, which she
was compelled to conceal by an unexpectedly rapid demise. At last the
curtain rang down on Austin’s farewell speech.
The boys and girls who during the long evening had figured on the
platform assembled in the green-room for a brief chatter over their
experiences. They were in high spirits and honestly happy; for they
felt that they had done their best, and that their best had given
several bright and pleasant hours to folks whose lives were but dull
and gray.
Buns, sandwiches, and lemonade provided the Altruists’ modest
refreshment. They had thoroughly earned their supper, but they hurried
through it in order to make an appearance at the feast-tables of their
guests. There was neither time nor place for change of dress; so the
actors in their motley garb now mingled with their audience, greatly
to the latter’s delight. Sweets and bon-bons tasted twice as good when
handed round by Teddy in pink satin, and Lilla in white; and a whole
troop of little fairies dispensed almonds and raisins at a lavish
rate. The movement of the guests to the supper-tables at the end of
the room was the signal for the retirement of upper-class Woodend to
the neighbourhood of the platform, whence it watched its young people
justifying their motto, “Help Others”.
“Austin,” whispered Frances, “aren’t you sorry poor Jim isn’t here?”
“Jim?” questioned her brother. “Why, wouldn’t he have been a cut above
these good folk?”
“Oh, yes, of course. He wouldn’t need anyone to give him supper or a
woollen comforter, I suppose. But he could have seen the acting, and he
would have helped us.”
“Really, Frances, you are ridiculous. You have such a fancy for Jim--as
though we could have had a fellow like that tagging on to us all the
evening.”
“I could have put up with him very well,” returned Frances calmly; “and
he would have been very useful. Don’t _you_ be ridiculous, Austin.”
Austin muttered something about not wanting “loafing cads” in his
vicinity; and was called so severely to task for his unmannerly epithet
that he retired to grumble mildly in Max’s ear. But Max, too, liked
Jim, and regretted the lad’s absence and the cause of it. He was sure
that Frances was thinking pitifully of Jim’s lonely Christmas, and his
sympathy was with Frances, not with her brother. Austin saw that his
grumble must seek another sympathizer, and while looking for one, he
noticed an old man’s empty plate, and flew to fulfil the duty of an
Altruist host.
Supper was followed by a distribution of gifts. The presents numbered
two for each person, and the ambition of the society had decreed that
they should be strictly useful and of a kind to give some real comfort
to the recipients. Thus, flannel shirts, knitted vests and socks, and
cardigan jackets were handed to the men; while the women received
warm skirts, bodices, and petticoats, “overall” aprons, and woollen
shawls. Crimson was the hue of most of the clothing, and Max’s prophecy
concerning the Altruist village seemed on the way to fulfilment. Thanks
came heartily and in full measure from the delighted guests; and when
their best spokesman had been put forward to offer the gratitude of
the poor of Woodend to “the young ladies and gentlemen what had shown
them a kindness they’d never forget”, good-byes became general, the
village-folk trooped out, and the happy evening was really over.
* * * * *
Mrs. Morland went home alone in her carriage, promising to send it back
for Frances and Austin, who were to take Max with them and set him down
at his father’s gate. A wonderful amount of consideration from Woodend
invalids had left Dr. Brenton free for a whole evening, and among the
Altruist audience not one had been happier than he. Now he went off
with his borrowed bath-chair and its weakly occupant, meaning not only
to see poor Mrs. Baker safely indoors, but to satisfy himself that her
husband, who had stayed sulking at home, was propitiated by the present
of warm shirts and socks which Frances had chosen as the likeliest
pacifiers.
The boys were still in their fancy dress, and obliged to wait in the
school-room for Mrs. Morland’s carriage; but Frances, in her cosy frock
and jacket, could defy the snow without, and she accompanied some of
her friends to the gate and saw them off. As the last carriage full of
boys and girls rolled smoothly away, she still stood thoughtfully by
the roadside. Frances was thoroughly content; her heart seemed full
of peace and good-will to all the world, and lifting her face to the
moonlit sky, she searched half-consciously for those old friends Orion
and the Plough, while her happy young face smiled in memory of all the
joys that evening had brought for her.
“She does look kind!” mused a lad hidden in the shadow of some bushes
opposite. “Kind and gentle and good! It was worth while to tramp from
Rowdon to see Miss Frances’s face to-night. She has been making folks
happy, as her way is, God bless her! I was afraid before I came,--but
now I’m glad. Miss Frances will be kind, I know she will. The boy’s
different, and I doubt he’ll be against me; but what shall I care, if
Missy is kind?”
Jim East lifted his head, and stood erect and brave.
“Nay, what should I care, with all the world against me, so long as
Missy was kind?”