FRANCES FALTERS.
On the following day Austin paid his promised visit to Rowdon Smithy.
There was no deceit in the boy, and he proclaimed his intention openly
at home. The contest on the subject between himself and his mother
was sharp and brief: Austin gained the day. Mrs. Morland had no idea
how to enforce her commands, for she had at her disposal no means of
coercion. Had it been possible to send her son to school, she would
have taken this step immediately; but her husband’s objections stood in
the way. There were no near relatives to whose charge she might, for a
time, have consigned the little rebel, save the Scotch cousin with whom
Austin had spent the last Easter holidays; and this cousin had gone
to Australia to take up sheep-farming, in hopes of making a fortune,
marrying, and settling down as an antipodean millionaire. Meanwhile,
he was making short work of his patrimony; and Mrs. Morland did not
exactly see her way to employ him as jailer.
A settlement between the opposed forces was brought about by the wise
diplomacy of Austin. The boy had always found that he had more than
enough to do in taking care of his own conscience, and it did not for a
moment occur to him that he was the appointed keeper of anybody else’s.
Least of all was he inclined to try to dictate to his mother and
Frances on points of duty or conduct; if only they would let him alone,
he was quite willing to be equally tolerant.
So Austin struck a bargain. His visits to the smithy were to be
permitted, in return for a promise that he would not enlighten Woodend
as to Jim’s revelations. Austin claimed one exception--he must and
would tell Max everything. Dr. Brenton knew already; and the doctor
and Max had no secrets from one another; so that Max, most likely, was
already in possession of the strange news. Anyway, Austin could not
shut out from his confidence his special chum.
Mrs. Morland made the best of the matter, and secured for the present
her own peace of mind by holding an interview with Max’s eccentric
father.
“Eccentric” Dr. Brenton certainly was in the eyes of Mrs. Morland, who
had not hitherto entrusted the health of herself or her children to
a medical man not possessed of a carriage and pair. The high esteem
in which the Doctor was held by the gentle-people as well as the
working-folk of Woodend had roused first her curiosity and then her
scorn.
“You must look more closely, dear Madam,” the old-fashioned Rector
had said to her, “and beneath Brenton’s shabby coat you will see the
spreading of an angel’s wings.”
“I think not, sir,” Edward Carlyon had differed quietly; “beneath the
shabby coat you’ll see only a shabbier waistcoat. The wings can wait a
bit: we want the man.”
Mrs. Morland was persuaded that she could secure the Doctor’s silence,
and indeed she did so. But she did not forget, during a whole
uncomfortable day, the “eccentric” man’s look as he bowed agreement to
her request. Dr. Brenton heartily wished Jim well, and he knew that
Mrs. Morland’s departure from Woodend would in no way help the lad; but
while he handed his visitor to her carriage with punctilious courtesy,
he wondered what manner of woman this was who could stoop to inflict so
great an injustice.
Though in the case of Austin Mrs. Morland gave way to what seemed to be
necessity, she was careful to hold Frances to her promise. And Frances
wavered miserably between the two parties, in this house divided
against itself. Of one thing she was sure--she could not have taken the
half-measures which had satisfied Austin. Had Frances acknowledged her
brother at all, she must have acknowledged him to all the world. The
feeling that in this respect Austin had fallen short of consistency
warped her sympathy with his actions, and to some extent seemed to
justify her own. She, surely, was at least consistent.
When poor Frances reached this stage in her meditations, she began to
falter. She remembered that she was still the leader of the Altruists,
and that a score of boys and girls paid her real homage as the inspirer
of deeds of self-denial and mercy. When the Carlyons’ school reopened
after the Christmas vacation, Muriel’s pupils began slowly to detect
some changes in their popular comrade. The girls with whom she had
seemed hitherto to have least in common were those who now met eagerly
her tardy advances. To be sought as friend and playfellow by Frances
Morland had been a happy distinction to any of Miss Carlyon’s little
band. Frances had never affected superiority, and it was impossible
to suspect her of vanity; but her clear gray eyes had appeared to
look beneath the surface, and to choose with unerring confidence the
best natures as those most akin to her own. Her gentle sincerity had
appealed to every loyal heart and won its ungrudging recognition.
Now, in the society of her former favourites, she was dull and ill at
ease; and when her new friends gathered round her, only too ready to
hail her as leader, her instinctive contempt for the offered loyalty
made her capricious and even tyrannical. Muriel Carlyon, who watched
over her pupils with a very real tolerance and sympathy, knew a pang of
disappointment as she saw Frances apparently content to reach a lower
plane in character and conduct.
At home, the girl’s altered demeanour was not less apparent than at
school. Her influence over Austin must have gone for ever, she told
herself, or he could not have differed from her on a point which was
surely a test of individuality; and having so made up her mind, she
soon brought about the state of things which had been purely imaginary.
It was true that Austin had begun to spend a good deal of his leisure
at the smithy, but he would at any time have given his sister’s affairs
the preference. Now, however, Frances no longer invited his willing
aid. The chemicals and dishes in the dark-room, once so fascinating,
were thick with dust, since Austin found photography “no fun” without
Frances. Prints had duly been taken from the two negatives which had
been the Christmas-day successes, and Florry’s group and Frances’s
landscape had been admired by half Woodend. But Frances could not
endure the sight of either; and when copies were begged, no coaxing or
pleading from Austin would induce his sister to help him to take them.
The boy laid aside his camera and took up his fiddle. His patient
teacher, a young Exham musician, was delighted with his sudden
progress; and Mrs. Morland smiled complacently while she whispered to
her friends:
“Yes, Austin has always been musical--so like his dear father. Mr.
Morland had quite a reputation as an amateur violinist. The Amati that
is now Austin’s was once his. It gives me so much pleasure to see my
dear boy take up in earnest the study of his instrument.”
On reception days Mrs. Morland’s servants were sent to playroom and
garden in search of the juvenile prodigy, but their efforts were vain.
Austin’s performances were strictly private--private to himself and his
brother Jim. For Jim’s sake he listened to his teacher’s instructions,
and strove, in half-hours of self-sacrificial practice, to communicate
those instructions to his own finger-tips. Then, later on, he could
pass them on to Jim. And Jim sat willingly at Austin’s feet in the art
and science of music, and found no evening dull on which he could pore
over the exercise-books his brother had brought him, and repeat again
and again on his own poor instrument some passage whose difficulty
Austin had tried to help him to overcome.
For many weeks matters held to the same course, and the Easter holidays
came round to complete the year of Mrs. Morland’s residence in Woodend.
Jim had kept his promise, and had not sought to make public the secret
of his birth; and Dr. Brenton and Max and Austin had proved equally
faithful.
Max’s training, as much as his natural endowment, had given him a
large heart and a most tolerant judgment. He was “all things to all
men” in the best sense. With this true friend, Austin attempted no
concealments, and felt that, without disloyalty, he might venture on a
discussion of the one epoch-marking experience of his young life. He
even tried to win from Max some opinion as to Frances’s share in Jim’s
dismissal and banishment.
“For it wasn’t a scrap like her,” remarked Austin in a puzzled voice;
“Frances has always been such a stickler about justice and that, you
know. Goodness! she’s down like a shot on a chap who doesn’t play
fair--”
“She used to be,” amended Max diffidently. The talk was of another
fellow’s sister, and he trusted his tongue would remember its duty.
“The other day, when Lal slanged Guy because Guy won that prize Lal
wanted, I believe every girl except Frances slanged Lal in his turn for
his sneakiness.”
“My! wasn’t there a jolly row!” said Austin, chuckling at the
recollection. “Ten of ’em all together giving it hot to that skunk Lal!”
“Frances would have led the assault once on a time.” Max smiled,
remembering not Lal’s rating only, but many occasions when Austin’s
sister had exchanged her usual serenity for hot contempt of conduct
base and ungenerous.
“Yes, she would,” assented Austin slowly. “And that’s what I can’t make
out--why she’s so different now.”
“I think it’s because she’s so really fair and straight,” said Max in a
sober voice, which breathed chivalrous determination to believe in the
absent Frances. “And if she knows all the time that she isn’t exactly
fair to Jim, she won’t want to come out strong about ‘justice’ when
other folks trip.”
Austin nodded his head in agreement. “That’s it! Besides, she’s a girl,
and girls are cranky things; a fellow never knows quite how to take
’em.”
“Not a fellow’s own sister?” queried Max, with interest.
“Bless you, no,” replied Austin, shaking his head this time, and
speaking with conviction. “Why, I could make out any other chap’s
sister better than I can make out Frances. But of course,” he added,
sitting very erect, “Frances isn’t a common girl. She’s not so
understandable as the rest of the lot, even.”
“Do you know,” began Max seriously, “what she told me yesterday? She
said she thought she’d have to give up being an Altruist!”
“No!” exclaimed Austin.
“She did! And I said: ‘Oh, Frances! don’t break up our club. It’s the
first of our Woodend things which has gone on and been a success.’ And
she said: ‘Of course it will go on, and far better without me.’ And I
asked her why; and she said something, very low, about the nicest sort
of girls--the girls who were the best Altruists--not caring for her as
they used to do; and that they didn’t come so much to the meetings, and
that she thought they would if she weren’t the leader.”
“Well,” said Austin, in a crestfallen tone, “fancy Frances chucking up
her beloved Society! She trots about with the Mater, too, ever so much
more than she used to do, and it’s a bad sign. Imagine Frances sitting
in a drawing-room, wearing her best togs, when she might be playing
hockey with us!”
“Yes--fancy!” echoed Max dismally.
“She goes out to tea, like any silly, when she might be making bromides
with me in the dark-room.”
“Well, she gave me two pinafores out of the Altruists’ stores last
week,” said Max, brightening; “she’s been so stand-off lately I was
afraid to beg.”
“Perhaps things will pick up,” said Austin. “I know what would make
them do it soonest.”
“What?”
“Why, for the Mater to find out what a jolly good fellow Jim is, and
make it up with him. Then Frances could follow suit, without any humble
pie. There’s nothing a girl hates so much as having to own she’s in the
wrong.”
* * * * *
The kindness he received from his young brother sank deeply into Jim’s
heart, and went far to heal it of the soreness left by Frances’s
repudiation of his plea for a kinsman’s position. Jim, as he truly
put it, “thought the world of the lad”, and was almost pathetically
proud of his handsome face and gallant bearing. During the prevalence
of the bleak March winds Austin caught cold, and had one of his bad
throats; and Jim was miserable all day and all night, except when Max
was with him, assuring him that the boy was “getting on splendidly”,
and promising to deliver to the interesting invalid every kind of
affectionate message, supplemented by such gifts as were within Jim’s
reach.
Austin got well, and resumed his custom of riding to the smithy at
least two or three days a week. The first time he went after his
convalescence, he received from Jim a welcome which he never could
forget. The elder lad’s wet eyes, shaking hands, and broken voice
were evidence enough of his clinging love for the younger; and Austin
realized, with some sobering emotion, that to his brother he was
infinitely dear.
A closer relationship grew between them. When the occasion served, they
had long talks, and learned to know one another. Jim’s simple manliness
of thought and deed roused in Austin a respect which kept down his
secret impatience with his brother’s extreme tenderness of heart.
Austin felt dimly that Jim ought to be resentful of the harsh decree
which shut him out from the ease and luxury of the home at Elveley, and
denied him the advantages due to his father’s son. He even tried to
“stir Jim up a bit”, and encourage him to stand out against the powers
that were.
“I don’t know what’s mine,” remarked Austin one day, after much
pondering over matters which had forced themselves on his boyish
consideration, “but I’m sure you ought to have most of it. Why don’t
you pluck up, Jim, and say so? Then you could study and go to college
as you’d like to; and you’re such a grind, you’d come out an awful
swell, and make the Mater and Frances proud of you!”
To his surprise, Jim turned from him with a pained expression, and
leaning against the window, murmured:
“Lad, lad! Do you think I’d take aught from you?”
“It wouldn’t be from me, really,” persisted Austin. “It would be only
having what’s rightfully yours. Well, there! Don’t mope, Jim! Come on
and give us another lesson in shoeing. I believe I’ll soon be able to
tackle a gee all by myself. Won’t it be larks when I can!”
Austin presently realized his ambition; and a fine dray-horse was
proudly shod by a young gentleman in spotless flannels, while his
admiring elder brother looked on to prompt and praise. Mrs. Morland
was spared the knowledge of this achievement; but Austin confided it
to Frances without hesitation. Frances’s native love of consistency
moved her to vindicate her chosen position by a hot reproof of Austin
for his unconventional conduct.
“Well!” said the boy, profoundly bored, “you don’t stick to your own
opinions, Miss Frances. Wasn’t it you who used to talk about any honest
work being noble and beautiful, and all that tommy-rot? Now I don’t say
shoeing horses is noble work, or beautiful, or anything. I just say
it’s first-rate fun!”
And Austin turned on his heel and went off.
“There!” thought Frances bitterly, “he has gone away; he never stays
with me now. He isn’t a bit my boy any longer. He’s Jim’s. Oh, how I
wish we never had come to Woodend! But Jim says his grandfather always
managed to know where we lived. How horrid it seems! I wish I’d been
different to Jim. He looked so sorry. I think--I think I hurt him. I
wish I were brave, and didn’t feel ashamed for people to know I had a
blacksmith for a brother! I hate to think of anyone pitying us about
Jim, and sneering at his funny clothes and way of speaking! I know I’m
a ‘snob’, and that Miss Cliveden would scorn me now; but I can’t help
it.”
Doubt of herself made Frances doubtful of others, and she began to
show signs of developing that unlucky sort of suspicion which searches
motives with intent to prove itself in the right. Her common-sense told
her that the best of her girl-friends could not despise her for conduct
of which they knew nothing; yet she, who had been above all things
frank and sincere, now continually imagined slights and offences on the
part of her favourite comrades. But Frances had been too well liked to
be readily regarded as an outsider by any of Muriel Carlyon’s brightest
and busiest lassies.
It was not until, in a mood of hopeless discontent, she carried out
her purpose of deserting the flourishing Society she had founded with
so much energy and success, that a deputation of alarmed and amazed
damsels pursued Miss Carlyon into her private sitting-room, and
demanded that she should, then and there, tell them what could be the
matter with Frances.
“She called a meeting in the schoolroom after hours!” cried Florry
Fane breathlessly; “it was to let us know that she wasn’t going to be
our leader any more! She said we should do better without her, and she
proposed that I should be the Altruist secretary--as though any one
could take Frances’s place!”
“It is true,” said the First Violin--a pensive maid known to her
elders as Dorothy Gray,--“that we have not attended the meetings so
regularly as we used to; but that was all because Frances has seemed so
different.”
“In what way ‘different’?” queried Miss Carlyon quietly.
“Oh! in every way. She used to talk such a lot about helping people,
and to be full of plans for all sorts of ways to make our Society some
real good to the Woodend poor folks. We were going to have a bazaar in
the summer, and build a club-room which would be open in the evenings
and entice the men from that dreadful inn at Lumber’s Yard. It was to
be a secret until we had held another meeting.”
“I thought you were bringing me some news, Dorothy.”
“Of course we were going to tell you all about it before we decided
anything.”
“Well, dear. And must the project fall through?”
“Why, I suppose so. We could not get on without Frances. She is so
good at arranging and managing. Besides, it would seem so strange and
unfriendly to throw ourselves into anything heartily with Frances out
in the cold.”
“But if Frances has chosen that uncomfortable position?”
“Can’t we get her away from it? Do help us, Miss Carlyon!”
There was a minute’s silence, while Muriel watched observantly the
half-dozen young faces turned eagerly to hers.
“My dears,” she said soberly, “I am with you in your surprise at the
change in Frances, and in your natural longing to understand it and to
win your friend back to her old ways. Let us put our heads together,
and see what we can do. First, let us ask Florry, who has been so much
with Frances, whether she can suggest any reason for the lassie’s
whims.”
“I don’t think I can,” said Florry slowly; “you see, she isn’t the kind
of girl to back out of things in order to be flattered and fussed over,
and begged to go on with them. Frances isn’t a bit vain. She’s too much
in earnest.”
The other girls assented in chorus.
“Can her mother have raised objections to her doing so much for your
Society? Mrs. Morland is taking Frances about with her more than
she used to do, and she may wish her daughter to use her leisure
differently.”
Florry shook her head. “No--it can’t be that. Frances told me her
mother had promised to help with our bazaar, and to persuade her
friends to work for it. We should hardly have gone on thinking about
it else,” added Florry bluntly, “because the Woodend people all follow
Mrs. Morland like sheep.”
“We needn’t criticise our elders on that point,” said plump Betty
Turner, “for we all follow Frances like sheep. Why not? Someone must
lead.”
“And Mrs. Morland’s leadership has been used most kindly on behalf of
the Altruists,” said Miss Carlyon gently. “No doubt it would serve
the bazaar to good purpose, and I still hope your grand plan may be
triumphantly worked out. And now, dear girls, as you cannot clear up
the mystery of Frances’s behaviour, may I, without discouraging you,
own that you mustn’t look to me for enlightenment? If there is anything
behind, I am not in Frances’s confidence; I can judge only from what
appears on the surface. Isn’t it possible that the very honours you
have thrust upon her--the popularity, the responsibility--may have
become something of a strain? Perhaps she may feel that, for a time
at least, she would rather remain in the background, while those who
have learned to imitate her courage and energy may take their turn in
coming to the front. In any case, I can’t help believing that your best
course will be to persist in your gallant undertakings, and to let our
Frances see that her efforts have not been thrown away. She has borne
the burden and the heat of the day, and she may flag for awhile only to
spring forward more gladly and willingly after a well-earned rest.”
“But our Society!--our Club, without Frances!”
“Must go on and prosper, if only to maintain its founder’s credit. If
your Club-room at Elveley is no longer available, you shall hold your
meetings here. Persevere, lassies, persevere! And before long--I feel
sure of it--Frances the Altruist shall be again in your midst.”
The news that her daughter had abandoned her pet hobby was quite a
shock to Mrs. Morland, who had so long been accustomed to see her
children to the fore in every juvenile scheme, that she could not
recognize the value of a light hidden under a bushel. She reproached
Frances long and scornfully for her voluntary abdication of her small
queenship; but the girl listened in silence, and with an expression
of weariness and indifference which increased her mother’s vexation.
Mrs. Morland felt the disappointment and chagrin Austin and Frances
were causing her all the more because such sensations were so new and
strange. She had always congratulated herself on the possession of a
pair of youngsters who were made for future social success. And here
was Austin, of his own choice, spending half his play-hours at a vulgar
smithy. And here was Frances handing over her girlish honours to
Florry Fane.
Mrs. Morland’s fretting and the children’s divided interests made of
Elveley a different home. The three members of the little family were
drifting apart slowly and steadily. During Austin’s short illness,
mother and daughter drew nearer in the press of a common anxiety; but
as soon as the boy was about again, and galloping his pony to and from
Rowdon Smithy, he seemed to become once more a being outside Frances’s
world.