JIM EAST.
Jim East, in his dark-hued mourning garments, had from afar appeared
sad indeed in the eyes of Frances. As he came nearer, she saw signs
not of sadness alone, but of sensations more strange to the girlish
onlooker. The sorrow he had just experienced could hardly account for
the wistful expression in the lad’s face, or for a certain hopefulness
in his bearing. Jim was coming forward to meet, with what courage he
could command, the crucial moment of his young life. He was trying to
assure himself that he had a right to expect that the ordeal would pass
and leave him happy.
“He is very lonely,” reflected Frances pityingly; “he has begun to feel
that he is lonely. I wish I could comfort him, but I don’t know how.”
Setting aside all possibility of administering comfort, it must surely
be a simple thing to condole and sympathize with Jim. Frances felt that
she could do both, for she had sincerely liked the old grandfather, and
was glad now to recall the sacrificed holiday hours for which he had
thanked her with moist eyes and grateful lips. She took a step forward
lest Jim should pass her with his usual quiet salute, but she saw that
this had not been his intention. He turned a little, even before she
moved, and directed his course to her without hesitation.
“She will be kind,” thought the lad as his gaze rested on Frances, and
she greeted him with a smile. “Grandfather was right, he said she would
be kind. If only she knew how I want her to be kind!”
Jim’s yearning was no more translatable through his face than was his
simple trust in a girl’s faith. Frances had left him the treasured
belief that in her sight his work, however humble, was honourable;
himself, however lowly, above reproach. She had not forced on him, as
had Austin, more than once, the recognition of differences of class,
habit, and attainment. These, she knew, were obvious enough to modest
Jim. Instead, she had shown him a gracious friendliness which had
roused the lad to wondering gratitude; while her intelligent interest
in his monotonous labour had given it value apart from bread-winning
necessity.
Jim, in his ill-fitting cloth suit of rustic cut, was in Frances’s
eyes a much more pretentious and less picturesque figure than Jim the
blacksmith working at his forge. A little half-conscious regret that
Jim himself was likely to hold a contrary opinion was promptly stifled
by the remembrance that in his case, at least, the wearing of mourning
garb was no meaningless form.
“Good-evening, Jim!” Frances’s right hand rested lightly on the
half-opened gate which bounded the carriage-drive to Elveley. “I’m
glad you’re here. I’ve wanted to tell you how very sorry I am for your
trouble. It isn’t only I, either; all of us boys and girls are sorry.
Your grandfather was always good to us; and we liked him, ever so much.
Of course,” she went on gravely, “I know that we can’t feel as you do,
because you miss him all day long. But you won’t forget, will you, when
you are sad and lonely, that we are sorry too?”
“No, Missy,” said Jim in a low voice, “I won’t forget; and I thank you
kindly for speaking so.”
“Then you will try to cheer up, won’t you, Jim? And we will all come to
see your dear smithy; and you must come sometimes to our meetings and
help us with the village-boys.”
A scrape of Austin’s foot on the gravel warned Frances of his strong
objection; but at that moment his sister’s thoughts were echoing the
quavering tones of an old man’s voice, begging her, when Jim should be
left solitary, to be kind to the lonely lad.
“We hope you will come to help us,” persisted the girl.
“I’ll do anything as you may wish,” Jim replied. “I’ll be proud
to serve you, Missy.” He lifted his head then; the gentleness of
Frances’s accents moving him to look to her face in search of help
for the better meeting of his fate. The lad was in sore need of
some encouragement, for he knew that the errand which had brought
him to Elveley this Christmas-day was one that might well startle,
if it did not repel, his listener. And above all things Jim dreaded
to see Frances’s pain or to hear her reproach. The position he now
occupied was intolerable to the boy’s sensitive nature. But guessing
instinctively that in telling his story the simplest words would be
the best, and the briefest phrases the most acceptable, Jim began his
explanations without any sort of pretence at ingenious circumlocution.
“I came to see you this afternoon, Missy, because of something you
don’t know about--something Grandfather told me just before he died.
I’m feared--I’m feared it isn’t what you’ll wish to hear. Grandfather
told the doctor, too; but not till he’d promised to keep quiet.
Grandfather wished me to tell you myself. He wished me to tell you on
Christmas-day, because then, he said, folks thought kinder of everyone,
let alone their own kindred. So I’ve been waiting all day, but somehow
I couldn’t bear to come. I wanted to come, but I was feared, in case
Grandfather was wrong when he said you would be kind. He bade me speak
first to you.”
“Jim,” said Frances slowly, though her heart beat fast, “I don’t
understand you in the very least.”
“Likely not, Missy. But it’s true what Grandfather told me, and I’ve
brought the papers, as he wished, for Madam to see.”
“For my mother to see?” asked Frances wonderingly.
“Ay, Missy. And,” added Jim, with a sudden, natural break in his
self-control, “won’t you please try to be kind to me? I’m your own
father’s son.”
“What!” exclaimed Frances, drawing back against the gate. “Jim! You!
What do you mean?”
“I’m Mr. Morland’s eldest son,” said Jim, in hurried tones, vibrating
with mingled hope and fear. The hope was built on memory alone, the
fear was roused by the shrinking dread he had fancied present in
Frances’s face and voice.
“My mother was Martha East, Grandfather’s only daughter,--there had
been one son, who had died. My mother wished to marry Mr. Morland, but
Grandfather wouldn’t let her, for fear he’d tire of her; so they ran
away, and married without leave. Mr. Morland was good to Mother, and
they were very happy.”
Jim paused a moment, in keen distress, for he saw that Frances had
grown white, and that she trembled as she leant for support against the
gate.
“Not long before he married, Mr. Morland had promised a great Society
in London to go for them to some country where he had travelled, and
try to find out something they wanted to know. So when the time came
he was obliged to go right away to some place in Asia; and before he
went he took my mother to her old home--for he had no relations of his
own--and begged Grandfather to take care of her till he came back.
When he’d been away three months, word came to England that he’d been
lost--taken prisoner, and carried off by some robber-tribes. There was
no more heard of him, and Mother began to fret and pine, for it was
said he’d never come home again. Mother lived only a few months after
she’d got the news. She said she couldn’t live without her husband. I
was born two months before she died.”
Jim hesitated, his voice faltering again as he glanced at Frances’s
face, in which the dread was now too clear to allow of mistake. The
hopefulness left the lad’s tones altogether, and he finished his story
in nervous haste.
“They thought I’d die too, but I didn’t; and Grandfather, being alone,
except for me, was glad I lived. Mother had called me Austin after my
father, and James after her brother; but Grandfather always called me
Jim. He’d loved his daughter dearly, but he was proud, and didn’t like
her having married among gentlefolk, who’d look down on him as just a
rough farmer. So, seeing he thought as my father was dead, as well as
my mother, he reckoned he’d keep me and bring me up a working-man.
“I was six months old when Mr. Morland came back. He had been rescued
by some travellers, who had been sent to search for him. When
Grandfather heard the news, he made up his mind as he’d keep me still,
and he did. They said in the certificate as my mother had died of a
fever that was about the village where Grandfather lived then; and
Grandfather took this paper and went to town to meet my father, and
told him how Mother had died, but never a word about me. My father
was dreadfully grieved not to find his wife waiting for him; and
Grandfather told him--quite true--how she’d always loved him, and
fretted after him, and spoken of him tender at the last.
“Then Grandfather took me away to the north, but he always managed to
know where my father was. He knew when Mr. Morland married again, and
that he had children, and when he died. And a few months ago, knowing
he was failing in health and soon to leave me, he began to think as he
oughtn’t to have kept me away from my father’s folk, so that I’d be
left all alone in the world; and he found out where you were living,
and bought Rowdon Smithy so that we could settle near you. He meant
that some day I should come to you and beg you to be good to me.” Jim’s
eyes and voice pleaded eloquently. “I’m your brother, Missy! your own
father’s son. I’ll always care for you and little master if you’ll let
me. I’d be proud to work for you, only”--Jim sighed forlornly--“there’s
naught you need.”
Frances stood silent and utterly confused. She might have fancied that
Jim’s sorrow had turned his brain, but for his intense earnestness and
the straightforward way in which he had told his strange story. Again,
she remembered facts which gave the story corroboration. For instance,
the old grandfather’s solemn expressions of pleasure and satisfaction
that he had seen her, and his evident delight in witnessing any
kindness she had shown to his boy. Then Frances knew that her father
had been a distinguished member of a learned Society, and in his youth
had travelled far to serve the cause of science. She had heard of his
romantic imprisonment and rescue; and though she never had been told
that he had been married twice, she saw that in this respect Jim’s
statements might easily be true. Her father had died while she was very
young, and her mother might not have cared to speak, to a mere child,
of her own predecessor.
As she hesitated, painfully conscious of Jim’s troubled and searching
glances, she was relieved to hear her brother step forward. What Austin
would say she could not guess, but at least his words might help her
own. The boy did not turn to her for prompting, though he stood by her
side, his face flushed and disturbed.
“Is it all true, Jim East,--what you’ve been telling my sister?”
Austin’s tone was masterful, and by no means suggestive of a
willingness to believe; but it served to rouse Jim’s pride, which had
refused to help its owner hitherto. The lad gained self-command, and
after answering Austin’s question with a simple “Yes”, turned again
pointedly to Frances for some sort of comment. The girl felt that she
must speak. Her perceptions were always quick, though they gained in
force from her reluctance to hold them final; and now her confusion
vanished before the overwhelming certainty that Jim had spoken the
truth--that he, the uneducated, shy young blacksmith, his face
roughened with exposure, his hands hard with toil, was indeed her own
father’s son, and her kin in blood.
“It is all true,” said Jim once more.
“Oh!” cried Frances passionately; “Oh, Jim, I hope it is not true!”
“Not true!” repeated Jim blankly. “You hope it is not true, Missy?
Why?--I’m rough, maybe,--but I’d never be rough to you. It is true,
Missy; I’ve the papers to show Madam. I’m your father’s eldest child.”
Jim’s trembling hands sought vaguely in his pockets.
“Oh, don’t say it--don’t say it!” went on Frances, in extremity of
fear and distress. “It--it couldn’t make any difference if it were
true,--don’t you see? We’re not alike in--in anything; we never could
be alike now. Oh, I don’t know how it sounds--what I’m saying! I dare
say it’s horrid, and conceited, and--and--not fair. But it wasn’t we
who settled whose you should be; and it’s your grandfather’s fault,
not ours!” Frances hurried out her words as though her own ears were
ashamed to listen to them. “He kept you back--he wouldn’t let you
belong to Papa,--and now he wants you to come to us, when it’s too
late.”
“Too late?” echoed Jim.
“Yes, it’s too late!” repeated Frances almost fiercely; “you belong to
your mother’s people, not to us. You know there is--a difference. If we
were all little, it wouldn’t matter; but Austin and I are too old not
to feel--to feel--”
“To feel shame of me, Missy?” suggested Jim quietly.
The peasant lad was standing erect and calm, and his grave eyes hardly
hinted at the agony which had come to him with the breaking of his
happy dream. If his imagination had idealized this young sister of his,
as well as a future which, in truth, would have been impossible as
he had pictured it, he could find blame for no one save himself. His
memory still dwelt tenderly on his grandfather, and he now wondered
how he ever could have supposed that the daintily-reared young
Morlands would have a thought of toleration for him and his claim of
brotherhood.
“How can we help feeling ashamed? It’s not our fault!” reiterated
Frances bitterly.
“You didn’t feel shame to speak to me at the smithy,” said Jim.
Then Frances, hardly knowing how to account for sensations of repulsion
which she knew to be unworthy, broke into child-like tears.
“You--you were a very nice blacksmith,” she sobbed, “and your house was
clean and tidy, and we liked to see the forge.”
“But we don’t exactly want a blacksmith-brother?” added Austin
interrogatively, while he looked curiously at his sister.
Frances seized his hand, and tugged it nervously.
“Oh, Austin, come away!”
“Wait,” interrupted Jim, in a dull voice; “won’t you stay till I’ve
seen Madam? I promised Grandfather I’d see Madam, and show her the
papers, to prove he’d told true. Mayhap she won’t turn from me,--won’t
you wait?”
“I can’t!” murmured Frances, shrinking as Jim advanced. “And Mamma will
only be angry if you go to her.”
“I don’t see why she should be angry,” said Austin, who was the best
controlled of the three. “Go up to the front door, Jim East, and
they’ll let you in. Then you’ll see our mother. I’ll wait here.”
“Austin, come with me!” begged Frances.
“No--I’ll wait here.”
* * * * *
Mrs. Morland laid the papers aside with a little well-bred gesture of
courtesy. Careless her examination of them had seemed to Jim; but in
reality she had grasped their contents accurately, and had no doubt
that they were genuine. The stately, beautifully-dressed woman leaned
back in her luxurious chair, and her fine eyes, which had forgotten
their youthful softness, scanned Jim from head to foot. She seemed to
find his appearance amusing.
“My good lad,” she said, in her clear, refined voice, “I am quite aware
that I was Mr. Morland’s second wife, and that his first was beneath
him in station. He was an honourable man, and he told me all the facts
of his pretty rustic idyll. I believe that he even told me that the
young woman’s name was Martha East. In any case, there is no reason why
her name should not have been Martha East. Nor is there any reason why
she should not have left a child. I do not wish to profess incredulity
concerning your statement that you are Martha East’s son, and that your
existence was hidden deliberately from Mr. Morland by your grandfather.
Such an action would, of course, be underhand and selfish; but one does
not expect from the uneducated classes a great refinement of motive
or honesty of conduct. It would be unreasonable to do so. It would
have been unreasonable, for instance, if I had supposed that, when
this piece of news was communicated to you, you would have resolved to
spare Mr. Morland’s other children the pain and annoyance of hearing
it also. That would have been the sort of conduct I could have had the
right to expect only from a gentleman. Your grandfather’s training
would naturally teach you differently. It would incline you to take the
course which promised most gain to yourself.”
Jim raised his eyes and looked steadily at the speaker.
“I do not blame you,” continued Mrs. Morland, with a quick movement
of deprecation; “your behaviour has been according to your lights. It
makes it the more easy for me to credit your story, which has, however,
no concern for me or my children. As your grandfather probably knew,
Mr. Morland was not a land-owner, and his fortune was absolutely at his
own disposal. Consequently, his will would hold good; and the discovery
of an elder child would in no way affect his provision for my son and
daughter.”
“Madam--Madam,” said Jim sternly, “you have no right to think as I was
wanting the money!”
“Then what did you want?” asked Mrs. Morland, smiling slightly. “You
wished, perhaps, that I should adopt you--take you to live here, as my
children’s equal and companion?”
“No,” said Jim, speaking firmly and bravely, “I did not wish that. I
only hoped as you’d allow I belonged to them, and had a right to care
for them, and--they for me.”
“Poor boy, you are quite modest and nice! I am afraid you do not
precisely understand social distinctions. Your grandfather made choice
of your future position for you, when he concealed your birth from
my husband. You have been brought up a working-man; and it would be
impossible, as it is quite unnecessary, for you to fit yourself for any
other kind of life.”
“I had no thought of doing so,” said Jim, maintaining his composure in
spite of failing heart.
“I have no doubt that when you come to reflect, you will see matters
in a sensible light. For your sake, I am sorry that your grandfather,
having kept silence so long to suit his own convenience, did not keep
it to the end to suit yours. You would have been happier without this
foolish revelation, which I advise you speedily to forget. I will
say nothing more about your coming here; you have merely obeyed your
grandfather’s selfish wish. But there is something I must say concerning
the future.”
Mrs. Morland raised herself, and, leaning forward, spoke in a firm,
distinct tone, very different from her previous cynical indifference.
“You must understand, once for all, that I can allow no sort of
acquaintanceship between you and my children. They are mine, and I
have the right to decide what is best for them. They have, I believe,
shown you some kindness--in return, I readily admit, for kindness shown
to them by your grandfather. You and they are therefore quits, and I
wish all intercourse between you and them to cease from this moment. I
understand that your grandfather bought for you a cottage and workshop
at a place called Rowdon, not far from here, and that he provided for
you according to the needs of the station in which he brought you up?”
“Ay, Madam.”
“To some extent, then, he justified his conduct. Well, in the same
way I have bought a house here, I have placed my children at a school
where they are happy, I have surrounded them with the comforts, the
pleasures, the luxuries, to which they are accustomed.”
Mrs. Morland stumbled for a second, as her eyes rested on the rough
clothing and labour-hardened hands of her husband’s eldest son. But if
there was an opening for reproach, Jim did not avail himself of it.
“I do not envy them their better fortune, Madam. Indeed, I do not.”
“You have no occasion to. If you have missed what you might have had,
it has been no fault of theirs or mine. I have settled here, in my own
house, and my children are learning to love their home. You, perhaps,
are attached to yours. I have no wish to suggest that you should go
elsewhere, and I should prefer not to do so myself. At the same time,
my resolve that you and they shall hold no intercourse is unalterable;
and I will rather break up my home than have its peace destroyed. If
you will give me your promise to keep silence on this purely private
matter--which never ought to have been brought forward--and to refrain
from forcing yourself on my children, there is no reason why you and
they should not rest undisturbed.”
Mrs. Morland waited in an anxiety to which her manner gave no clue.
“I never thought of telling anyone,” said Jim simply. “I never meant to
come here against your will. I’ll promise, as you wish.”
He picked up the papers Mrs. Morland had laid aside, and thrust them
back into his pocket. The young blacksmith would have been puzzled to
know what was meant by theories of life and analyses of conduct; but he
did not lack intelligence, and he perceived that he was being treated
unworthily by his father’s widow. For the two children he had lately
left he had no condemnation, though from them had come the only stabs
which had reached his heart.
“I’ll go now, Madam,” he said. “I’ve done as my grandfather bade me,
and I hope you’ve seen as he spoke true.”
“Yes,” reflected Mrs. Morland, while Jim was closing the door softly
behind him, “the wretched old man did ‘speak true’! That boy has
his father’s eyes and expression--he is like Frances. None of those
marvellous resemblances one reads of in story-books, of course; but
there are sometimes traces which recall personalities more closely than
a stronger likeness would. I hope, I hope against hope, that he’ll keep
his word! If he’s his father’s son, he will.”
* * * * *
Down by the garden-gate Frances and Austin Morland awaited Jim’s
return. Frances had striven hard to draw her brother away; but as he
would neither leave his post nor talk to her, she remained by his side,
acutely miserable. With tongues inactive, the girl and boy thought the
more. Frances felt a self-accusing shame which she could not escape
and did not know how to justify. She was not old enough to probe her
nature with searching finger, and find there that very sensitiveness to
the opinions of others which she always had thought so poor a thing.
She wondered only why the sudden appearance of a blacksmith-brother
should seem so great a misfortune to her--to her whom her friends had
nicknamed “Frances the Altruist”, who had appeared to have a mission
for the better instruction of less liberal-minded persons! She was a
sinner against her own code, a traitor to her own cause.
Frances did not tell herself these facts: she merely felt them in a
kind of vague disturbance. Self-consciousness is not a fault bred in
public schools; and the influence which, though brief in duration,
had so strongly affected her, had not tended to develop unchildlike
self-introspection.
“Here he comes.”
Austin spoke at last, and his sister, with a little shiver, drew close
to him. The boy laid his hand on her arm, in a gesture which was at
once affectionate and protecting.
“Never mind, Sis. We can’t help things happening.”
Jim’s footsteps drew close. The lad had forgotten Austin’s promise, and
in the gathering darkness did not quickly see the watchers by the gate.
He gazed straight before him as he came, and would have passed the two
Morlands had Austin not stepped forward.
“You’ve seen my mother, then?”
Jim, with a start, looked at the speaker, not knowing what his own face
revealed.
“Yes--I’ve seen Madam.”
“You showed her those papers--whatever they were? Did she believe what
you said?”
“Yes. It didn’t make any difference. I’d rather be going, please,”
added Jim, trying to open the gate on which Austin had laid his hands.
“Stay!... No, never mind! I’ll ask Mamma myself.” Austin opened the
gate, mounted it, and swung out with it into the roadway. From this
convenient perch he fixed a steady and observant gaze on the figure of
the unwelcome visitor.
“We might have said good-bye to him?” queried Frances in a shaking
voice.
“Perhaps--if we’d meant it,” returned Austin carelessly. “Frances, I’m
going to Mamma. You come too.”
So Austin led the way. Mrs. Morland had already sent a servant to look
for her children, and they met the man on the steps.
In the drawing-room Austin put his questions straight.
“Jim East has been here, hasn’t he, Mater? He has been telling Frances
and me queer things. Are they true?”
“How am I to know what he has told you, my darling?” asked Mrs. Morland
diplomatically.
“He told you too, didn’t he? He said he was our brother.”
“Your half-brother, dearest,” corrected Mrs. Morland gently. “A mixed
relationship merely. You need not remember it.”
“Is it true? Is he our father’s son?”
“I believe he is. I shall make inquiries, of course, but I have no
doubt they will confirm his story. He brought proofs which appeared to
me sufficient; some letters of your father’s, for instance.”
There was a brief pause, while Austin stood thoughtful, and Frances
scanned her mother’s face.
“I tell you these things, children,” continued Mrs. Morland
composedly, “because I wish you to understand the position clearly,
and also my wishes with regard to it. This poor lad is probably your
half-brother, but he has been brought up apart from you, and you and he
have nothing in common. There are many reasons why I could not possibly
allow you to be intimate with him. Such persons have different thoughts
and feelings, and use different language, from any I could allow you to
become accustomed to.”
Austin looked steadily at his mother.
“I’ve seen Jim East--no! I suppose it’s Jim Morland!--a good many
times, Mater. I don’t know about his ‘thoughts and feelings’, but I’ve
never heard him say a word you wouldn’t have liked us to listen to.”
Frances saw her brother glance at her for confirmation, and murmured
lamely: “No, he always spoke nicely.”
“I am glad to hear it,” said Mrs. Morland drily. “That lessens my
regret at having let you both come in contact with your poorer
neighbours. Indirectly, we owe all this nuisance to your fads and
nonsense, Frances.”
“Mamma,” said the girl, colouring, “Jim’s grandfather evidently meant
to send him here some day. Mr. East came to live at Rowdon on purpose.”
“It is horrible to think we have lived under a sort of espionage,” said
Mrs. Morland impetuously. “The old man’s conduct, from first to last,
was disgraceful. Let me never hear you speak of him again. And let me
hear no more of the wretched boy he left behind. Austin and Frances,
you will give me your word of honour that you will not again visit
Rowdon Smithy, and that if you come across that lad anywhere you will
take no sort of notice of him. You understand me?”
Frances murmured a reply.
“Then I have your distinct promise, Frances?”
The girl knew that her brother was watching her. He, of course, would
follow where she led.
“Yes, Mamma.”
“Yours also, Austin?”
“Well, ... no.” The boy threw back his head with a proud motion. “See,
Mater, I don’t want to be cheeky, or to vex you ... and what you say
may be all right for Frances. She’s a girl; and though I can’t see
what harm she’d come to at the smithy, I suppose she’s got to stay at
home if you want her to. But I don’t care twopence about charity, and
humble neighbours, and Altruists--except to please Frances, and join
in any lark that’s going. I’ll cut the lot if you like. But if Jim is
Jim Morland and our brother--half or whole--I’m not going to cut _him_.
That would make me a jolly cad, anyhow.”
Austin, who was certainly innocent of any desire for melodramatic
effect, stopped abruptly, the better to observe his hearers. Frances
had dropped her face between her hands--now, why on earth, Austin asked
himself, had she done that? Mrs. Morland had started upright, angry and
bewildered. What was the matter with her? Did she suppose--did anyone
suppose--a fellow was going to cut his own brother?
“Austin!” exclaimed Mrs. Morland, “do I understand that you threaten to
disobey me? Do you wish to make me miserable, and bring shame upon us
all? Don’t imagine I shall allow you to do it. You are only a child,
and utterly incapable of judging for yourself on so important a matter.
You will simply do as I order you. By and by, when you come of age,
you can of course throw my authority aside. In the meantime you are
entirely under my control. I forbid you to speak again to this young
blacksmith. That is enough.”
Mrs. Morland leant back on her cushions almost overcome. Her agitation
was very real; for though Austin had not interrupted her, she had seen
no sign of yielding on his handsome, boyish face--out of which, as she
had spoken, had passed all the carelessness and all the pride.
“Mater--I don’t know how to tell you properly--but I think you’d speak
differently if you had seen Jim at the gate just now. Frances had
chucked him up, you know, when he came first; and then you had chucked
him up, and he was going away without a word. He looked awfully _down_.
I thought it was hard lines.”
Austin pushed away, with an abrupt, half-nervous movement, the chair
across which he had been leaning, and thrust his hands into his
pockets. He was a typical little Englishman--a boy of that nation which
despises demonstrations of sentiment; but there was an honest flush on
his cheeks.
“Look here, Mater,” he continued, “don’t you believe that if our father
were alive he’d take Jim home this very minute? Wouldn’t he have him
here with us, and treat him just the same?”
Mrs. Morland sat speechless.
“I think he would,” said Austin soberly; “I truly do. And,” he
continued, a delicate instinct prompting him, “I can’t tell why you
don’t; only, of course, I don’t know about all the things you know of.
I’m just settling about myself. I saw Jim going away, looking _down_,
and I meant to ask you to send someone to fetch him back.”
“Austin!”
“Why not?”
“Because,” said Mrs. Morland indignantly, “I will not hear of such
a thing. Do you suppose I will have all Woodend sneering at my
blacksmith-stepson?”
The boy kicked a stool vehemently.
“Well, I won’t ask what isn’t any good. But I’d like to go after him
myself, and say--something. And I think I’ll go.”
“Austin! you--”
“I think I’ll just go.”
The boy was near to the door. He reached it in a few quick, firm steps,
turned, waved his hand smilingly, and went.
Mrs. Morland sprang up and moved some paces after him, then, with a
helpless sigh, moved towards Frances. Why did not she run to stop the
daring offender?
But Frances had sunk into a chair, and was sobbing bitterly. Shrugging
her shoulders, Mrs. Morland stepped rapidly to the bell and rang it.
“John,” she said to the servant who appeared at the door, “I wish you
to try to catch Master Austin. He has just left the room, and has, I
think, gone out of doors.”
“I saw Master Austin in the hall just now, ma’am.”
“Make haste, then, and bring him back.”
John hurried off, much exercised in his mind concerning his mistress’s
distressed manner; and though used to a dignified pace, he fairly ran
down the carriage-drive, threw back the gate, and stood gazing, now
this way, now that.
“Can hardly have got out of sight in this time,” reflected the puzzled
servant. “Well! if that isn’t the sound of a pony coming down the
drive! Master Austin must have got the beast saddled double-quick.
What’s our young gentleman up to, I’d like to know? Well, I’ve got to
stop him, I suppose.”
John stood prepared in the middle of the gateway; and as Austin trotted
into close quarters the servant explained his mistress’s orders.
“Look here, John,” said Austin, his eyes glowing with mischief, “I’ve
an excellent regard for you, and I’d be sincerely sorry to cut short
your valuable career. But if you don’t move a bit to one side I’m
afraid I’ll make short work of you. I’m going through that gate this
instant!”
As he spoke the boy touched his pony; the plucky little animal sprang
forward, John sprang backward, and with a joyous laugh Austin was off
down the road at full gallop.
* * * * *
Jim tramped steadily through Woodend village, noting his whereabouts
only when his heedless progression brought him to a stop in the deep
snow gathered at the sides of the pathways, or sent him floundering
against wall or fence half-hidden in the heavy shadows. His thoughts
kept him company, and shut out intrusive sensations concerning the
white world around him. The lights blinked through the trees from
the houses standing back among their gardens, and the sounds of
mirthful family meetings strayed sometimes to the lad’s ears. It
was Christmas-day--the day on which, so old Bill East had said,
folks’ hearts beat tenderly for all their kin. Lower down the valley
cottage-homes stood humbly in their tiny plots; and the windows, often
uncurtained, revealed the rough comfort within. Homes of another
sort--as those of Lumber’s Yard--lay back from view: among them Dr.
Brenton and Max were paying a round of Christmas calls before settling
down for the evening they never cared to spend apart.
Jim tramped on. He had reached the entry to Lumber’s Yard, where a knot
of the male residents had gathered for a sociable chat until it should
be time to repair to the parlour of the “Jolly Dog”. One of the men
called out to Jim, whose face was just then visible in the light from
an open cottage-door. The lad heard the gruff greeting,--it came from
Harry the Giant,--and the well-meant invitation which followed it.
“Why, Jim East, you’re looking rarely glum and peckish! Cheer up, lad.
Come wi’ me, and ’ave summat hot to hearten ye. We’re all agoing into
the “Dog” this minnit. Come along wi’ us.”
Jim paused irresolutely. Before his mental vision loomed the smithy,
infinitely dreary; no welcome awaiting him save from four-footed
friends. The old woman who kept the place clean and cooked meals for
the Easts had begged a holiday, which had been granted cheerfully. Jim
shivered as he thought of the lonely rooms.
It was a searching moment for the poor lad. The cruel rebuffs of his
kindred had cut him to the heart; more than that, they had threatened
the ruin of his moral sense. If he were a creature so repellent in
the eyes of those to whom his inner self had turned with instinctive
yearning, surely he must have been mistaken in supposing that his
nature could have qualities in common with theirs. Beauty of form,
colour, or sound had always roused in him a glow of happiness, in
which, during the last fortnight, he had tried--with a kind of grateful
wonder--to recognize some latent refinement such as he supposed to be
the inalienable possession of the gently born and bred.
He was the son of one whom even his grandfather had admitted to be
a gallant and honourable gentleman. He was the brother of Frances,
with her gracious manner and gentle speech, and of Austin, whose gay
courtesy towards his girl-playmates had secured Jim’s respectful
admiration. But since Frances and Austin would have none of him,
whither should he turn? Could he carry into his lonely, loveless life
that higher purpose which would teach him, without help or sympathy,
to shun the base and impure, and to cling to the thing which is right?
Or must he sink, sink at once and for ever, to the level of such as
these?... Jim dragged his thoughts from the memory of the beautiful
home from which he had just been banished, and forced his eyes to rest
intelligently on the slouching figures blocking the entry to Lumber’s
Yard.
“Thank you, Harry;”--the lad’s voice had an unusual firmness--“you are
kind, but I must be getting home.”
“There’s none to greet ye now,” persisted the giant good-naturedly.
“Change your mind, and come wi’ us.”
“I can’t,” said Jim quietly. “Good-night, and thank you, Harry.”
More arguments, some rough, some jeering, followed him as he shook
his head and walked on towards the darkening lanes beyond the village
bounds. He chose mechanically the shortest way to Rowdon; and he had
just turned into a by-road overhung by leafless elms, when a galloping
pony caught him up, and was reined in with a jerk by his side.
“Jim!”
The lad started violently, and turned in amazement to see Austin
Morland leaning from his saddle with hand outstretched.
“Jim! I’ve come after you. Shake hands, old fellow.”
Jim, still staring, obeyed half-consciously. The grip exchanged by the
brothers satisfied Austin, and sent through Jim a strange thrill of joy.
“I can’t quite make out things yet,” continued the younger boy, a
little shy, but wholly friendly; “my mind’s a bit mixed, I fancy. But
I know one thing--if you’re Jim Morland, we’ve got to stick to each
other. Eh?”
Jim muttered a choky affirmative.
“Well, you are Jim Morland. Mater says so; and if she seems fussy at
first, you and I aren’t going to worry. Perhaps she’ll come round.
Anyhow, we’ll stick to each other. Eh?”
“Ay--I’d give the world for you. I’ll not forget.”
“If I could, I’d come with you now. But Frances and I can’t leave the
Mater to-night. You see, Jim, don’t you?”
“Dear lad, I’d not have you come.”
“But you will have me--ever so often. Whether you like it or not. I’ve
holidays now. See, Jim! I’ll come to-morrow, in the afternoon quite
early. Will you look out for me?”
“Will I not?”
“Then good-bye now. Because of Frances and the Mater, you know. Don’t
mope to-night, there’s a good fellow. I’ll come to-morrow, and won’t I
wake you up! Shake hands again! Now I’m off. Good-bye, brother Jim!”
The swift pony and his rider vanished. Jim Morland stood where they had
left him, and his head sunk in his hands. Who shall despise him if, in
his overwrought condition, he sobbed for very happiness?
“And to think I nearly missed him! Ah, if I’d gone along of Harry!
Thank God I didn’t.... I’d never go now. I’d never do aught to make him
feel shame of me. I’ll care for him always--ay, and for Missy too!...
He called me ‘brother Jim’, God bless him!”
Jim went on through the darkness. At the smithy he found that Elizabeth
had returned, made up his fire, and laid his table. Jim wandered about,
too happy to eat. He was no longer alone in the world: he had a small
brother, who was coming to see him to-morrow, and on many morrows.
(Jim hardly paused to wonder how Austin had contrived to overcome his
mother’s objections.) At last the lad dragged a chair to the blazing
fire in the kitchen. His dog crouched at his feet. His great black
tom-cat purred at his elbow. His fiddle invited a song of thanksgiving
to which his heart piped its cheerful chorus.