THE HEAD OF THE HOUSE.
It fell to the lot of Austin to tell his sister of Jim’s plan for
their settlement at Rowdon Smithy. Jim had resolutely declined to
wait at Elveley long enough to be the bearer of his own news. He was
beset with misgivings as to the results of the course to which he had
persuaded his stepmother to agree; and yet he knew that by no other
means could he possibly provide, even in the humblest way, for his
kinsfolk.
He had been reared by a masterful, self-contained man, who had exacted
unmurmuring obedience, and had seldom encouraged individual thought and
action. Thus Jim Morland, at twenty-one, was hardly more than a boy
in essential matters; and the responsibility of “head of the house”,
suddenly thrust on him, was enough to press heavily on his immature
character. He learned, as time passed, to draw on the fundamental
independence of his nature; but at first he found himself capable only
of doing what lay to his hand--of planning as best he might for the
present comfort of his little family, while he trusted that his path
might some day grow less dim.
His interview with Mrs. Morland had been really a trial to the
sensitive, country-bred lad; and he could not find courage to witness
his sister’s reception of the tidings he supposed would come to her as
a fresh calamity. Jim suffered here for his pardonable moral cowardice;
for even Austin, who knew how Frances had drooped under the burden of
suspense and uncertainty, was surprised at the relief she showed when
he had explained what lay before her. Frances rose to the occasion like
the plucky lass she always had tried to be. That very evening she began
to work at the necessary packing; and her mother, hearing the girl’s
cheerful voice when she came for instructions, felt an unreasonable
impatience because what she would herself so greatly miss seemed to
have small value in her children’s eyes.
Frances was not in the least insensible to the worth of what she was
leaving behind, but out of the depths of her late despondency it was
good to rise to a level whence she might look bravely and gratefully
on the possibilities of the future. In the first place, she knew that
the question of acknowledging her brother was at last settled beyond
dispute, and that the injustice done to him was to be removed, however
tardily. She had done nothing to bring this about, and she was quick to
see that atonement on her own part must be of another sort--if, indeed,
there were any compensation Jim would care to accept. She could at
least take heed that she did not now mistake her brother’s motives, or
under-estimate the sacrifice he was ready to make. He had shown himself
capable of chivalrous forgiveness, and the higher part of her nature
was eager to respond.
Frances’s admiration and her longing to make amends were freely
confessed to Muriel Carlyon, who sympathized with both, and had good
counsel to give.
“Don’t overwhelm the boy with formal apologies and embarrassing
praises, dear child. You would only make him uncomfortable. Try to let
him see that you like and trust him, and want to help him all you can.
It’s no light duty he has undertaken. You, more than anybody, can make
it a pleasant one.”
When Frances came to attempt the putting in practice of her friend’s
advice, she found an obstacle in the barrier of shyness and constraint
which the unlucky past had raised between her and her elder brother.
Jim was obviously uneasy in her presence--dreading, poor fellow,
a criticism which he had every reason to think would be to his
disadvantage. He came to Elveley, during the three days of waiting, as
little as he could; though, as Mrs. Morland seemed determined to fulfil
literally her expressed intention of “retiring into private life”, he
was obliged to act for her at every point, to give all necessary orders
about the removal, and to interview, as her appointed representative,
all persons who had business with her. Jim did his utmost; but at
Elveley he grew each moment more weary and dispirited, as he recognized
more and more clearly the difference between the surroundings to which
his stepmother and her children had been accustomed and those into
which he had offered to take them. He kept his forebodings secret, but
they worried him none the less.
The long-continued trouble had at last brought Frances one comfort
which made amends for everything. It had given Austin--the old
Austin--back to her, and had shown the lad at his best. His manly
instincts had come into evidence, and he had hovered patiently about
his mother and sister, assuring them that he would soon be grown-up,
and able to work for them. Then they would all be happy again.
Meanwhile--as growing-up is a slow process--he was content to leave to
Jim the ordering of affairs. He knew that he meant from the beginning
to do his share, but he wisely refrained from informing his mother
that his accomplishment of horse-shoeing was at length to “come in
handy”.
Frances, too, had laid her plans, and meant to be a busy little
housewife. She had confided to Muriel Carlyon all the doubts and
difficulties which had made her hold aloof from her favourite comrades,
even to the extent of deserting her cherished Society; and now, feeling
that at last she possessed no worrying secrets and was fairly on the
road to recover her self-respect, Frances rejoiced in the possession of
a true friend to whom she might turn for the encouragement she could
not find at home. On the day before the departure from Elveley, she
paid a “farewell” visit (only Muriel scouted the word “farewell”) to
Woodbank, and entertained herself and her companion with a discussion
of her coming diversions.
“I am going to be ever so useful,” she announced blithely. “It
wasn’t for nothing, after all, that we girls started our Club. We’ve
learned to cook and to iron, and I’ve not forgotten your lessons
in cutting-out. I can make my own frocks and things, and the boys’
shirts.--I call Austin and Jim ‘the boys’,” she went on with a little
flush, “so that I may get used to thinking of them together.”
“You know where to come for help, darling.”
“Yes, thank you. Oh, I’m so glad we’re going to Rowdon, not to some
quite strange place, far away from you and the girls! Miss Carlyon,
we had a little bit of good news this morning. Mamma’s lawyer wrote
to tell her that the people who have made her sell Elveley are
going to let her keep some of her favourite books and pictures and
furniture--anything she likes up to a certain value--and some of her
glass and silver. And Austin and I may have all our very own things:
so that Austin is going to take his cameras, and Jim has promised him
a dark-room. That will be so nice for him, won’t it? He has a fine
stock of plates and chemicals, and we must make them last as long as we
can. They’ll keep a good while. Most of Mamma’s things were chosen and
packed at once, and have gone away to-day. Austin went with them, to
help Jim.”
“You would have known, far better than your brothers, how to arrange
the rooms as your mother would like best.”
“I shall have some time to-morrow,” said Frances, colouring. “Mamma
will not leave Elveley till the last thing, but I can go to Rowdon
early in the day.”
“And you will go by yourself?”
“No--Florry is coming with me.” Frances admitted rather awkwardly this
evidence of the shy feeling which made her avoid the sole company
of Jim. “We are going to unpack and put away all the clothing, and
finish Mamma’s sitting-room ready for her. Jim has been kind about the
sitting-room. He has made Mamma understand that it is to be quite her
own; he has moved out of it the old things which used to be there, and
has put them into the room opposite, where he keeps all sorts of tools
and some of the materials for his work. I remember very well when we
went to Rowdon Cottage--that’s what they call the little house beside
the smithy--Jim’s grandfather inviting us to look into ‘Jim’s den’. It
was neat and nice, only it had no proper furniture except tables and
chairs. There were loads of shelves in it. I do love shelves!”
Muriel Carlyon laughed with pleasure to see the girl’s cheeks grow pink
as she pictured to herself a real workshop, with entrancing rows of
tools, a carpenter’s bench, apparatus for various kindred handicrafts,
and a floor littered with fresh-smelling shavings and sawdust.
“It was a jolly ‘den’!” continued Frances; “and if--if I do get
friends with Jim, I know I shall beg admittance sometimes to his
treasure-chamber. I shouldn’t wonder if Austin had a corner of it all
to himself. Jim is very fond of Austin. I’m certain he is, though I’ve
hardly seen them together. You could tell by the way they look at one
another.”
“Well, dear, you must have a corner of your mother’s sitting-room.”
Frances shook her head. “Mamma would be miserable if there were any
litter about her, she likes everything spick and span. And, you know,
Austin and I do want her to be as happy as she can. It is so very, very
dreadful for her--” Frances paused awkwardly “I mean, it is dreadful to
give up the nice things she has been used to for such a long time.”
“It is, darling; indeed it is.”
“So I thought if only she could have her own rooms filled with her
own things she might not miss what she has to leave--at least, not so
much. And when Jim told her she must count the sitting-room quite for
herself, it did seem possible to make that pretty. Then the room above
it is to be hers too. It is a pity, but I must take a corner of that.
I am afraid Mamma will dislike sharing her bedroom, especially as her
furniture will fill it up so; but we can’t help it. There are only four
rooms upstairs, and the two back ones are tiny places, not big enough
for anyone to sleep in. One will be for our boxes, and the other is
full of lumber already. The second bedroom is for the boys. Austin and
I are to have our own little beds, so they won’t take up much room.”
Muriel listened to all these confidences and to many more before she
allowed Frances to leave her. She knew that the girl was in real need
of a woman’s sympathy and encouragement, and she hoped by judicious
counsel to make the entry on a new and strange life a little easier
for her favourite. Miss Carlyon was quite as fond of planning and
contriving as were any of her young folk; she meant to do her full
share in helping forward Frances’s ambitions, and to see that none of
her girls had more of her personal help and affection than the lass who
was so ready and eager to conquer fate.
* * * * *
The lights in Rowdon Cottage burned throughout that last night of Jim
Morland’s solitary life. The hours of dusk and darkness and dawning
were few and short to the busy lad, who worked steadily and with
intention during every moment they gave him. Jim’s eyes were already
fairly-well opened to the nature of the burden he had taken on his
young shoulders. He had accepted in a spirit Mrs. Morland had not
dreamed of, her injunction that he should consider himself the head of
the little family.
He knew that he must be, first of all, the bread-winner. Jim’s
calculations as to ways and means were already completed, and he had
reckoned up the average of his earnings, added the result to the sum
which came to him from the provision made by his grandfather, and
decided that he might count on a weekly income of thirty-five shillings.
Jim was not ignorant enough to suppose that this amount could allow for
any save the simplest methods of housekeeping, even when supplemented
by garden produce and home-reared poultry. The old woman who did
his cooking and housework expected only a small wage, but this, and
her food, made a serious item of expenditure; and poor Jim wondered
anxiously whether her blundering ways would be tolerated by his
fastidious stepmother. Jim was not prone to hard judgments, but he was
not a fool; and he had seen that Mrs. Morland could be both unjust
and unreasonable. He knew, only too surely, how Frances had shrunk
from contact with himself; and argued that she would be predisposed to
despise his cottage home.
The lad grew hot and cold by turns as he anticipated his inability to
satisfy their expectations; and at last came to the wise decision that
he would, at the outset, make confession of his modest means, and avoid
the worse pain of raising hopes he could not fulfil.
“For I must not run into debt,” pondered Jim. “I promised grandfather I
never would do that.”
Even without the remembered promise to admonish him, Jim was not
cast in the mould of those people who can look their just creditors
unblushingly in the face.
When morning brought his elderly housekeeper, the lad nerved himself
for an ordeal. This was no less a matter than an important parley with
old Elizabeth Macbean. Elizabeth was a Scotswoman, and an excellent
domestic according to her lights; but her gaunt, angular person and
strong-featured countenance were not prepossessing, and Jim was
nervously anxious lest she should give offence by her independent
speech and manners. To old East and his grandson her civility had
never fallen short; she had looked on them as her superiors simply
because they employed her, and she had even shown a kind of motherly
interest in her younger master. But Jim recollected that Elizabeth had
heard with compressed lips and scowling brow the facts he had found
it necessary to tell her about the changed affairs of Rowdon Cottage;
so he was not without qualms as he prepared to add to his news at
this latest possible moment. His gentle nature made him shrink from
inflicting pain, and he feared he was about to hurt well-meaning old
Elizabeth. Fortunately, Jim had no mixed notions on the score of duty;
and it seemed to him now that his duty was plain.
He left Elizabeth to go about her morning work as usual, and was
careful to do justice to the simple breakfast prepared for him.
Home-baked scones and new-laid eggs were excellent fare in Jim’s
opinion; and he rose from the table refreshed and strengthened in spite
of his long night of toil.
“I don’t think as anything could be better than your scones,
Elizabeth,” said Jim, from a discreet post at the kitchen door. “You’ll
let me have some every day when the children come, won’t you? I’m sure
they’ll like your scones, Elizabeth.”
“I’ll see what I can dae. Whiles they have nae butter-milk up at the
fairm.”
The tone of Mrs. Macbean’s voice was not promising, and her attitude,
as, shovel in hand, she “made up” her fire, was positively militant.
Jim drew on his reserve fund of determination and stood his ground.
“Well, can you spare a moment, Elizabeth? I have something to tell you.”
“I hae thocht that,” replied Mrs. Macbean, with disconcerting
promptitude.
“And I hope you won’t take it unkind,” added Jim.
“I’ll mak nae promises,” snapped Elizabeth.
[Illustration:
M432
“NAY, ELIZABETH,” SAID JIM KINDLY, “THERE’S NO NEED FOR LOCKING UP.”]
“Anyway, I must say it,” continued the lad gravely. “You know,
Elizabeth, as there’s ladies coming here to-day. I’ve told you all
about it, and how, though they’re my very own folk (Jim held his head
proudly), they’ve been brought up different. I’m wanting, most of
all, as they shall feel this cottage home-like, and so I’d not have
them miss, more than I can help, all they’ve had to give up. You’ve
always managed for grandfather and me, Elizabeth; and you’ve served
us faithful, as I’ll never forget. But when my stepmother and my
half-sister come (Jim was faithfully exact), they’ll be mistresses
here. I want you to go to one of them every day for orders, and do your
best to please them.”
Jim held his breath.
“Jist as ye please, sir,” was the sole response of Elizabeth; and
thrusting one hand deeply into a serviceable pocket, she dragged out,
with ostentatious indifference, a small bunch of keys, and flung them
clatteringly on to the kitchen-table.
“Nay, Elizabeth,” said Jim kindly, “there’s no need for locking up,
and I’m sure the ladies won’t wish it. Keep the keys, and give me
your promise as you’ll help me all you can. I’m a bit worried and
sore-hearted, Elizabeth.”
“There’s nae doot aboot that,” returned the old dame, though evidently
mollified. “I hae watched ye ever since ye telt me o’ the happenings at
the grand hoose yonder, where your fine leddy mither and sister wear
their silks an’ satins; and I hae seen the speirit gang oot o’ ye. But
I’ll dae your wull, maister.”
“That’ll be all right, then, Elizabeth,” said Jim, sighing in relief of
spirit. “You’ve made the cottage beautiful clean and fresh-like, and
I’m sure you’ll keep things nice.”
Then Mrs. Macbean uplifted her long person after a final dash at the
coals, and emphasized her speech with her loaded shovel.
“I hae served gentlefolk afore,” she remarked grimly; “and I’m no
needin’ tellin’ as to hoo I’ll serve them the noo. There’s ae thing
mair. I hae kent, lang afore ye hae telt me onything, Maister Jim, that
ye were come o’ gentle folk yersel. Ye hae a’ the look o’ it; and I’m
thinkin’ it’s a peety.”
With these uncompromising words, Mrs. Macbean flung the contents of
her shovel on the fire, snatched up a broom, and vanished through the
back door. Jim sighed again, and went off to give the rooms a final
inspection. His last visit was to the “den” of which Frances had told
Miss Carlyon. Thence he emerged with a strange glimmer of a smile on
his lips.
As he stepped to the threshold of the front door, which stood wide
open to the warm August airs, he saw a sight which made him halt
irresolutely, while his pulses throbbed in sheer nervous excitement.
A couple of girls had just reached the gate, and were pacing slowly up
the path between the glowing flower-beds: as they came, they pointed
out eagerly to one another old favourites they could recognize among
the cared-for luxuriance of the borders.
“See!” said the sweet, clear voice of Frances, “isn’t that a splendid
clump of southernwood? And those deep purple pansies--I love them!”
Jim caught his breath sharply. If Frances could “love” anything about
Rowdon!
“What darling snapdragons--white and yellow and red!”
“And those briar roses--aren’t they late?”
The girls bent low to enjoy the varied fragrance. Jim felt something
in his throat, and for a moment saw the pretty girlish figures through
a mist. A sudden access of joy filled his heart. Could it be that
his home was to know the familiar presence of such as these? Could
anything he had to offer be worthy of their soft eyes and dainty hands?
He gazed, in a happiness he could not have explained, at the gracious
picture before him. Only a pair of charming English lassies; but for
simple Jim they were an inspiration to love all that was highest,
purest, worthiest.
Florry Fane lifted her head, and caught sight of Frances’s
“blacksmith-brother”. Florry did not keep her intellect for
book-studies, and she called on it now to help the situation.
“Hallo!” she exclaimed merrily, “there’s Jim! I shall run and ask him
to tell me the name of that pretty blue flower!”
She hurried on, and before Frances could overtake her had gained the
porch, and held out her hand to Jim, who stood waiting there.
“Good-morning, Mr. Morland!” said Florry, in gay greeting; “we’ve come
to make ourselves tremendously useful. We’ve great big aprons in this
bag, and Austin has lent us a hammer and a packet of nails. We mean
business, you see.”
Jim took the kind little hand, and bade Florry welcome with most
respectful courtesy. It was good of her to call him by his father’s
name; but, being Frances’s friend, she was, of course, a queen among
girls.
Frances came up, and finding the ice thus broken, managed to greet Jim
easily enough. The three talked for a few moments in the porch.
“Now we must go in and set to work,” declared Florry presently; and Jim
stood aside that she might lead the way; then, as Frances made a shy
motion to follow, he detained his sister by a slight gesture.
“I hope as you’ll find things right, Missy,” said the youth in a low
voice. “I’ve a lot of work to do in the smithy yonder, and I’ll be
there all day most like. Elizabeth will bring me something to eat; and
so--so--the place’ll be clear, if you and Miss Fane wish to stay. I
bade Elizabeth ask what you’d fancy,”--Jim coloured, and added with
some effort,--“and you won’t forget, Missy, as you’re mistress here.”
Frances wanted to say something kind and appreciative; but while
she watched her brother’s nervousness her own came back to her, and
she searched vainly for words which might make an approach to frank
confidence between them seem possible. Jim saw only her hesitation, and
hastily concluding that his forebodings had been justified, stepped
quietly out of the porch and took the side-path to the smithy.
“I believe it will always be like this,” thought Frances, as she gazed
remorsefully after her brother’s tall, well set-up figure. “I wonder
why I’m such a silly? I wish he wouldn’t call me ‘Missy’. I wish I
could tell him nicely--so that he wouldn’t be vexed--that he ought to
say ‘Frances’, as Austin does. Austin would know how to do it, but
that’s because he behaved kindly and fairly and has nothing to be
ashamed of. And Jim has been so good to us, so generous and forgiving;
I ought to be proud of him--and I think I am, deep down in my heart.
It’s the top part of me that’s so ungracious and horrid. How stupid to
be shy, when he’s my own brother! Shall I ever be sensible about it?”
Just as Frances reached this plaintive speculation her friend’s
patience gave way, and Florry, who had ventured on a peep into the
sitting-room, came back to fetch the loiterer.
“It looks quite nice already,” said Florry cheerfully. “There really
isn’t much for us to do, except the ‘etceteras’.” She dragged Frances
forcibly into Mrs. Morland’s future sanctum. “See! even the curtains
have been put up; and don’t they hang nicely? One of your brothers has
ideas, Frances! I wonder which of them ‘disposed’ that drapery?”
“Not Austin; he wouldn’t be bothered!” laughed Frances. “The room does
look pretty. Those soft gray walls are such a nice background for the
pictures. It was kind of the creditor-people to let Mamma keep some of
her pictures and china, wasn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” said Florry soberly. “But as your mother wasn’t really
a bit to blame--”
“Don’t! Miss Carlyon says the more I ‘nurse a grievance’ the worse
things will seem. I’m certain she’s right; for I begin to feel my
‘angry passions rise’ the moment I give them a chance.”
“Come, then--to business! Here are two suggestive-looking boxes already
unfastened for us. What lurks within, fellow-conspirator?”
“Nothing very mysterious. Only a few special treasures of Mamma’s, and
some of her books, and other odds and ends. There’s the empty book-case
in that corner. Good Austin! He has remembered to put up the brackets
and small shelves for the china.”
“Isn’t that a pretty little overmantel? I don’t recollect seeing it at
Elveley. What dainty carving!”
“It never was at Elveley,” said Frances, in a puzzled voice; “and it
is pretty. Those two long shelves will be lovely for photographs and
the little figures papa brought from India. Oh! the overmantel is a
blessing. Let’s make haste to fill it.”
“No--I’ll do the books, and leave you the treasures. Ah, what a jolly
Browning! Isn’t this binding perfect? Hallo! it’s Rivière’s! Frances,
you’re a lucky girl. It ought to make you amiable to live with this.”
“Goose! I like a binding I can handle. I wouldn’t give my own Browning
for that; though I own that Rivière, like our unknown genius of the
curtains, has ‘ideas’.”
“Here’s an edition of Jane Austen in crimson morocco. Frances, I
wouldn’t have Jane Austen in crimson. She ought to be bound in French
gray, or ‘puce’, or anything old-fashioned and sweet. Never mind; here
she goes, dear old thing! When we’ve finished with this room, Francy,
do let’s unpack your treasures. I helped you to pack them, so I shall
know just where everything is.”
Frances shook her head. “I told Austin to send my boxes to the little
place upstairs. There’s no room for their contents anywhere.”
Florry looked unmistakably crestfallen.
“You see, this is the only sitting-room besides Jim’s den,” continued
Frances hastily; “and Mamma and I have to share a bedroom. I’ve been
wondering where I shall pop my mammoth work-basket.”
“Oh, Frances! Your beautiful Altruist basket!” Florry saw her friend
wince, and, running across the room, threw her arms about the other
lassie and hugged her close. “Come back to us, Francy dear! oh, do! You
were the first Altruist, and the best--”
“Ah, no, no!” cried Frances, with a tremble in her voice; “I was just a
great humbug--a mean pretender!”
“You never were. You started it all; and, Frances, it has been of some
use to Woodend. The Rector says so, and Mr. Carlyon, and Dr. Brenton,
and--Max. If Max says so--who would dispute Max? Francy, all the girls
and boys want you to come back.”
“I can’t till I’m gooder,” said Frances, wavering between sobs and
smiles. “I’m a shabby, horrid thing! Florry, don’t let’s talk of those
jolly old times--before last Christmas. See! I’m going to work hard. I
won’t say another word till I’ve finished.”
Florry could both see and hear that the resolve was a wise one; so she
went sedately back to her books, and was in the thick of “business”
when the sitting-room door was pushed open and Mrs. Macbean entered.
The girls at once greeted the old woman,--whom they had seen more than
once when they had paid holiday visits to the smithy,--with a pleasant
word and smile.
“I hae made a bit dinner for ye, Missies,” said Elizabeth, striving
after the manners she considered due to gentlefolk, “and I hae pit doon
the table-claith, as the maister’s bidding was, in the room on the
ither side o’ the passage. Maybe ye’ll ring the bell yonder when ye’re
minded for me to serve ye.”
“Oh, Elizabeth, you are good!” said Frances gratefully. “We meant to go
home for dinner; but it is a long way, isn’t it, Florry?”
“Rather! And we’ve such lots to do. Elizabeth--best of Elizabeths!--do
say we are to have some of those delicious scones you brought to us
once when we came here to plague you!”
“Surely ye’ll no be minding on my bits o’ scones, Missy?” inquired Mrs.
Macbean graciously. “The likes o’ you lassies I never did see! Weel,
I’ve nae doot I can obleege ye; and ye’ll likely no refuse a whang
o’ the cream cheese that the fairm-wife sent till the maister this
morning. Come awa’ wi’ ye, Missies, ben the ither room, and I’ll bring
the dishes in. It’s one o’clock--late eneuch for bairns.”
Elizabeth bustled away, secretly well pleased that it was once more her
lot to wait on gentlefolk. Perhaps there was in the peasant woman’s
nature a strain of sympathy which, if it made her jealous for her
“maister’s” rights and dignity, was no less capable of appreciating the
trouble which had fallen on Jim’s “fine leddy mither and sister”.
The girls ran upstairs to wash their dusty hands, and chased each other
down again amid peals of laughter, which brought indulgent smiles to
Mrs. Macbean’s face and sent her with good-will to her serving.
“Fancy dining in Jim’s den!” laughed Frances, pausing at the door. “We
shall need to use the sitting-room for meals, I suppose, when we’ve a
proper table there. I’m glad we’re going in here to-day. It’s a lovely
place, Florry,--all shelves and saw-dust, and dear little saws and
hammers and things. Don’t you like a carpenter’s shop? I do. I always
envied the boy Altruists--”
Frances, having by this time led the way into “Jim’s den”, stood just
beyond the threshold, too absolutely surprised at what she now saw
to remember after what fashion she had envied the boys. The room had
undergone a transformation. The walls had been freshly covered with
a pretty paper; the wide, latticed windows had been hung with dainty
Madras muslin, with sage-green draperies at either side to be drawn
across at night. The carpet was of the same soft tint, and so were the
furnishings of two or three wicker chairs placed at cosy points. The
deep window-seat held a couple of big cushions of yellow silk, and was
thickly padded, and covered to match the chairs. On a table close to
the window stood the Altruist work-basket. Most of the shelves which
Frances had admired still ran along the walls, and on them were neatly
ranged, not the paraphernalia of handicrafts, but the many special
possessions of Frances and Austin. Their own treasured volumes filled
two plain book-cases, whence had been banished the hoarded sum of Jim’s
library.
Before her eyes had taken in half the details, Frances turned to Florry
and exclaimed impetuously: “Oh, what made him do this? How could he?
Jim has given up his den to us!”
“He is a brick!” said Florry heartily. “Now you know where your things
are going, Frances. I believe they are all here. There’s your mother’s
Christmas present”--Florry pointed to the desk on a side-table spread
with the children’s writing materials. “There’s your easel, and
your paint-boxes are on the shelf close at hand. What’s behind that
inviting-looking curtain hung between those two shelves?”
“Austin’s photographic things,” replied Frances, peeping; “here are
his cameras, plates, papers, chemicals, and everything. He is to use
the bath-room for developing; he has been covering the window with red
stuff. Fancy a bath-room in a cottage like this! Jim’s grandfather
built it out at the back.”
“Austin will be very much obliged to him.”
“Florry,” said Frances, a troubled look in her eyes, “I don’t think
Austin and I ought to take this room from Jim. He cannot possibly have
anywhere else to go. I think I will just find my way to the smithy this
very moment, and talk to him about it.”
“Good!” returned Florry equably; “I will e’en to that cosy window-seat
and watch for your return.”
Frances departed in a hurry for fear of failing courage; and Florry,
who had something to say, but was in no haste to say it, carried a book
to the window and felt herself at home.
Jim stood by his anvil, making, with level, well-aimed blows, rough
nails for farmers’ use. He had flung off his coat and waistcoat, rolled
up his sleeves, and donned a leathern apron. It was Jim the blacksmith
on whose hardy toil Frances cast shy and interested eyes. He did not
look so unapproachable as she had expected; but it was evident that her
coming had startled him. The lad laid down his hammer, however, and
stepped forward at once.
“You want me, Missy?” he said quickly, with an undefined hope that his
sister might be about to command his willing service.
“Oh no!” said Frances; “I didn’t mean to interrupt you--at least, only
for a minute. I came to say that--that Florry and I have been looking
at your room--”
Jim was hungering for a word of satisfaction. If, indeed, he had
pleased Frances, surely he might dare to hope that he had not begun
amiss.
“You used to have so many things there,” continued Frances, her
self-possession deserting her as she noted the expression of her
brother’s grave young face. “I don’t think Austin and I ought to be so
much in your way.”
“You could never be that, Missy,” said Jim, whose spirits sank
unaccountably at the painful courtesy of Frances’s manner. “It’ll be
right for you to have a little place where you’ll feel private-like,
and know as nobody will interfere.”
“You are kind, Jim,” said Frances; and the girl hung her head in shame
that no warmer words would come at her bidding.
“Surely not,” said Jim dejectedly. “There’s no talk of kindness so
long as I can do aught--” Jim hesitated, fearing to offend by some
obtrusively brother-like speech, and his pleading glance fell at the
sight of Frances’s averted head. “There, Missy,” he continued gently;
“don’t you go for to trouble yourself about my bits of things. I’ve a
deal more room for them in the big shed behind here; and they’ll be
handier to get at. You’ve no call to think twice of them.”
Then Frances stepped close, and laid her hand on Jim’s arm.
“You are kind--and good,” she said earnestly. “I don’t know why you
should take us in here, and bother about us at all.”
“Don’t, Missy!” murmured Jim, keenly wounded. “Who should care for you
and the little lad, if not me?”
“Nobody would, Jim; nobody. And I don’t see why you should. But indeed
I do want to help, and to share the work all I can. I shall soon find
out--and I’ll beg Elizabeth to teach me.”
“No!--no!” Jim was touched at his tenderest point. “You’ll do naught
here but what pleases you, Missy. ’Tis for men to work and make
beautiful homes for their lady-folk.”
“Girls work now as well as boys, Jim,” returned Frances rather
wistfully. She had been wont to dream of the life-work which should
be hers some day--of voluntary, altruistic toil among the poor and
suffering of the great city; not of humdrum daily tasks which could
claim no more fascinating name than the prosaic one of duty.
“I cannot see as that’s right, Missy,” said Jim; and Frances
looked with a certain pity at this lad born out of due time--this
old-fashioned believer in the right of woman to be worked for, and
set apart and worshipped. If he could have heard Miss Cliveden’s
impassioned voice as she urged her pupils to remember their sacred
claim to share with men the glorious task of making history!
Jim was utterly out of date. He bent his head and kissed reverently the
little fingers resting on his arm; then caught up his hammer and began
afresh to work for his “lady-folk” with all his peasant might.
Frances went slowly back to her comrade.
“Jim will make us keep the room,” said the girl with conviction; “and I
do not believe I even thanked him properly.”
“I wouldn’t worry him with gratitude,” remarked Florry the philosopher.
“I would just clear a corner for him and ask him to occupy it. I fancy
he would like that better than thankings.”