“MISSY.”
After Christmas the winter arrived in earnest--such a winter as
England seldom sees. Day after day keen “black” frost and bitter east
wind brought hard suffering to the poor. Jim banished Austin from the
smithy, and more than once the boy and his sister were prevented
from paying their visits to Woodbank, and were reduced to “hearing
each other” say their well-prepared lessons. Florry was not seen at
Rowdon for a week at a time. Max came, of course; but Max in greatcoat,
comforter, and gaiters could defy the weather.
Not so Austin; yet Austin, rash as ever, would not stay indoors. Thus
Jim got into disgrace; he was condemned utterly as an aider and abettor
of his brother’s defiance of prudence. Jim it was who sharpened and
cleaned and polished Austin’s old skates, by way of helping the younger
lad to forget that he was to have had a new pair that year. Jim it was
who announced that Rowdon Pond was bearing. Jim it was who, having
reasonable fears of the results when Austin mooned listlessly about the
lanes, suggested the brisk exercise of skating as an excellent way of
keeping boyish blood in circulation.
Frances always declared that it was running out without cap or
overcoat, and standing in draughts, and lingering for last words with
Max at the gate, which did it. But Mrs. Morland blamed Jim and the
pond; and Jim went for a fortnight with heavy pain at his heart and
fresh anxiety on his mind. For he accepted Mrs. Morland’s view: and
Austin was very ill. Austin had not had so bad a throat for a long
time. He suffered much, poor boy; and Jim, looking at him, suffered
more. Dr. Brenton came daily, and Doctor Max spent hours by the bedside.
Jim was night-nurse, at his own humble, imploring request. In vain did
Frances remind her mother that the “head of the house” went to his
post after a long day’s work. Mrs. Morland’s face was stony as she
declined to accept any excuses for the culprit. Jim was the person at
fault, and it was obviously just that he should suffer for his sin.
Jim thankfully bore this sort of punishment, and tended Austin through
the night hours,--when pain and weakness made the boy restless and
irritable,--with infinite tenderness and patience. Francis begged to
be allowed to share the watch, but Mrs. Morland was inexorable. She
required her daughter’s help in the sick-room during the day, and
Frances must take her usual rest or she certainly would break down.
Frances thought “breaking down” more likely to be Jim’s lot, as she
watched her elder brother’s face, with its haggard eyes, heavy from
ceaseless fatigue, and noted how worry and care were setting on his
brow their ineffaceable lines. Indeed, the extra burden of Austin’s
illness was leaving marks of its weight, and Jim’s slight figure bowed
beneath it.
But the trial was over presently. Austin was better, he became
convalescent; he must be carried downstairs in Jim’s own arms, and be
coddled and spoiled in the warmest corner of the study. Jim thought no
self-denial too hard, no service too exacting; and Austin would hardly
have been mortal boy had he never taken advantage of his willing slave.
When fear and trouble on Austin’s personal behalf were ended, a
dreadful sequel began. Bedroom fires night and day made inroads into
the coal-supply, and invalid luxuries ran up expensive bills. Mrs.
Morland’s demands had not been unreasonable with regard to her own
table; but when Austin’s nourishment was in question she ordered
lavishly, hardly requiring Jim’s entreaty that she would see that her
boy lacked nothing. During convalescence the lad’s appetite was tempted
with difficulty, and Jim’s only fear was lest the port-wine should not
be strong or plentiful enough. Afterwards, however, the wine must be
paid for.
Jim took to sitting up late in his corner under the roof,--how late
nobody guessed; for Austin, in his well-warmed bedroom, was always fast
asleep when his brother stole in. But the hard winter told on trade,
and Jim knew nothing of the best markets for his wood-carving. He was
glad to sell his dainty work for a trifle to a little hook-nosed Jew
who kept a small “curiosity-shop” in Exham.
Jim reminded himself that he was now a man, and that a man worth
his salt ought to be able to maintain his family--especially his
“lady-folk”--in comfort. He could not bring himself to suggest further
“stinting” to Elizabeth. The lad seemed possessed with a feverish
activity. He went to the farmers round about, and found all sorts of
odd pieces of work with which to fill up every minute not required by
his special trade. Anything to earn a few shillings, and to delay that
borrowing from capital and lessening of interest which must surely some
day bring ruin on the little home where he sheltered his cherished
kindred.
Jim hid his troubles with desperate courage, but there was somebody
who was not entirely deceived. Frances had not forgotten that first
interview between Jim and his stepmother on the latter’s coming to
Rowdon, and her clear sense had taught her to suspect that the finances
of the cottage were giving her elder brother some reason for his
harassed look. The girl longed to ease his burden, but she did not
know how to invite his confidence. The constraint between them had not
lessened sufficiently to allow Frances the opportunity of penetrating
his carefully-concealed secret.
At last chance played poor Jim a trick, and he stood revealed.
“Austin,” said Frances one evening, looking up from her books, “do you
know where Jim is? It’s so frightfully cold to-night--surely he can’t
be in the smithy still?”
“I hope not. I wish I could go to see.”
“You mustn’t, indeed. The wind cuts like a lash, and the place where
Jim works is right open to it.”
“Well, it’s hard lines for a fellow to be mewed up here. Frances, it’s
Saturday. Jim is always late on Saturdays.”
“He’s late every night now, I think. He just gives himself time to
dress for dinner; and after dinner he spends half an hour studying
with us, then he vanishes upstairs. And he hardly eats anything; he’s
getting quite thin.” There was a hint of tears in the girl’s voice,
though she did not add aloud her conviction--“I believe he goes
without, to leave more for us.”
“We must look after him better,” said Austin uneasily. “He’s such a
right-down good chap, he never thinks of himself.”
“No, never. I’ll go and look after him now, Austin. I’ll make him come
to the warm room.”
Frances wrapped herself in a woollen shawl, borrowed Austin’s
“Tam-o’-Shanter”, and went out softly at the front door. Down the
side-path, over a thick carpet of snow, she crept stealthily into view
of the smithy. The fires were out: clearly Jim had left his forge.
She kept the pathway, and skirted the larger building to reach the
closed-in shed behind it, where stood the carpenter’s bench. Here Jim
often worked after regular hours, and here she found him to-night.
The girl peeped in through the small window, and at once saw her
brother, seated on a rough stool by a rough trestle-table. A few books
and papers were spread before him, but he was not examining them,
though Frances could see that they were account-books and bills. Jim’s
arms rested on the table, his hands supported his upturned face, which,
in the light of his little lamp, looked rigid in its blank misery.
For a moment Frances was startled; then the sight of the papers, and
the recollection of many things, brought home to her the truth of her
recent suspicions. Now, if ever, was the time to speak. If Jim were
vexed by her interference, he still might be persuaded to explain his
position; and then surely it would be her right to try to help him.
Frances opened the shed door softly, and closed it behind her when she
had passed in. The place was bitterly cold. Jim’s face looked pinched
and wan as he turned and gazed at her in dumb surprise. His hands,
moving mechanically, swept the bills together with an instinctive
effort to hide them; but Frances, walking straight to his side, pointed
deliberately to the little heap of crushed papers.
“Jim, I’ve caught you at last!”
“Missy!” ejaculated Jim, and gazing still at the determined intruder he
stumbled on to his feet.
“Yes, I’ve caught you, so you needn’t attempt to get off telling the
truth!” The girl feared that the laboured jocularity of her tone wasn’t
much of a success, and continued with a natural quiver in her voice:
“Oh, Jim, you mustn’t think I’m quite blind, or that I don’t care. I’ve
seen for a long time back how worried you have been, and I’ve guessed
that something must have gone wrong.”
“I’m sorry, Missy,” said Jim, in a low voice. “I suppose I’m a coward,
or I shouldn’t show so plainly when I’ve a little difficulty to meet.
But I didn’t know that anyone--that you would notice.” The lad’s eyes
grew very soft. “You must please forgive me, Missy.”
“Oh, Jim,” exclaimed Frances, perplexed by this disarming entreaty, “I
wish you wouldn’t talk like that! Do--do tell me what’s wrong!”
“It’s not anything for you to know, Missy. Indeed, it’s just my own
affair--I’d not trouble you with it. Don’t mind me if I seem a bit
downhearted now and again. I’m just a rough fellow, and forget my duty
sometimes, like as not.”
“No, Jim, you remember it far too well. You make all the horrid things
your duty, and won’t understand that Austin and I want to go shares.
And I will know. So now, Jim, tell me.”
Frances persisted with argument and entreaty until she had drawn her
brother’s secret from his lips. Having learned the facts, she set to
work energetically to propose a remedy.
“We must not spend so much, Jim,” she remarked, knitting her brows
seriously. She now occupied the stool, Jim standing by her side with
all the air of a conscious defaulter. “It will never do to keep on
drawing from your capital. I understand about ‘capital and interest’
quite well--really I do. I know that if capital grows less, so will
the interest. We don’t want our interest less, so we mustn’t touch our
capital.” (Jim’s eyes brightened as he heard the plural possessive.)
“Now,” Frances went on, “listen to me, and don’t interrupt, and don’t
contradict. I sha’n’t allow you to contradict! We can do without
Elizabeth, and we must.”
“Why, Missy--”
“Be quiet, Jim! I like Elizabeth ever so much; but she costs a good
deal, and we won’t keep her. She will easily get another place; for
I’ll tell Miss Carlyon about her, and what an old dear she is.” Jim
smiled forlornly at the epithet applied to angular Mrs. Macbean. “You
see, it’s wicked to employ people you can’t afford to pay; and I’m sure
we can’t afford to pay Elizabeth.”
Jim clenched his hands behind his back. They were strong, capable
hands; why, oh why, could he not fill them with gold for Missy!
“We can do quite well without her,” persisted Frances, her courage
rising bravely to the emergency. Jim watched the kindling of the
girl’s intelligent face, and wondered whether he had known before that
gentle-voiced Missy possessed so plucky a spirit. “She--or someone
else--might come, perhaps, once a week: to wash, you know, Jim, and to
clean the kitchen. I shall do the rest.”
“You!” gasped Jim.
“Of course. I can cook and sweep and dust--yes, and I’ll learn to
scrub. Why not?”
“No, Missy. Oh, don’t put that shame on me!” muttered Jim, in an agony
of mental distress. “’Tis no work for little ladies: and a man ought to
bear the burdens by himself. I’ll get more to do--indeed I will! You
sha’n’t need to worry, if only you’ll not say Elizabeth must go.”
“But I do say it, Jim,” said Frances solemnly; “I wish I could send you
to Haversfield, and let Miss Cliveden talk to you. She’d show you what
a goose you were to think ladies--no, gentlewomen--are disgraced by
work. Why, loads of splendid, clever women earn their own living; and
I’ve always thought I’d love to earn mine. Look at Miss Carlyon--she
isn’t ashamed to work for herself, and not be a burden to her brother.”
“But her work’s so different, Missy,” pleaded Jim.
“As if that mattered! Still, if you think it does, and won’t let me
help here, I’ll try another plan. I’m fifteen now, and I dare say I
might teach little children. Mrs. Stanley wants a nursery governess,
Max says. I shall beg her to take me.”
“Missy!” Jim’s tone was now one of the blankest, most thorough dismay.
“Go away from home--leave Rowdon” murmured the lad incredulously. “Why,
’twould take all the light from the place. You’d never--Missy!--you’d
never do it?”
“I’ll have to, if you won’t be reasonable,” said Frances severely. “Of
course I’d rather stay here, and teach just you, and look after Austin,
and take care of Mamma. But if you won’t let me--”
“Missy,” said Jim nervously, “you know you’re mistress at Rowdon. I
won’t say--anything. But oh, don’t go away!”
Frances discreetly followed up her advantage, and made her brother
promise to dismiss Elizabeth with the usual notice. It was to be done
in the kindest, most appreciative way; and Mrs. Macbean was to be asked
if she would care to have another situation found for her, or if she
would take daily work, and keep Saturdays for the cottage.
Then Jim was requested to put away the tiresome bills, and go indoors
and get his lessons ready at once.
It was his first experience of his sister as “mistress”. Never before
had she assumed the voice of the dictator, never before had she ordered
him about. Jim felt that he liked it.
* * * * *
And now little Frances the Altruist was indeed a woman of affairs.
Jim kept his word, and after the reluctant departure of Elizabeth
attempted no remonstrance; he tried faithfully to control his feelings
when he saw his sister cook and sweep and dust. Only, if she rose
early, he rose earlier; and she never came down to find a fireless,
uncared-for grate. Her cans were filled with water, her scuttles with
coal, before her light step could be heard on the stairs.
After due thought, Frances had decided that Austin should share Jim’s
secret.
“It won’t do him any harm to know all Jim has tried to do for us,” she
reflected wisely; “and I think, somehow, it will help him to be manly
and brave himself.”
So Austin was told, and received the news with preternatural gravity.
“All right, Sis! Jim can keep his hair on; he sha’n’t be ruined yet
awhile, if we know it. Peace to the shades of the departed Elizabeth!
You’ll boss the show, and I’ll be second in command.”
Mrs. Morland, also, received a communication from Frances. Jim was
forthwith sent for--being suspected of having a weaker will than
the one she had just encountered,--and obliged to listen to keen
upbraiding, even to merciless taunts. Jim, pale and suffering, could
reply only that Mrs. Morland’s opinions were humbly acknowledged as his
own; and that if Missy could be induced to abandon her scheme, he would
thankfully support motherly authority.
But Frances the Altruist took her own way.
The young people of Rowdon Cottage formed themselves into a sort
of household league, and speedily discovered the benefits of
co-operation. Jim toiled early and late; but his trouble shared was
trouble lightened by at least one appreciable fact--the absence of
need for further concealment. His distress of mind at the sight of his
fellow-toilers grew no less, in spite of arguments drawn unconsciously
from the propaganda of enlightened social economists; but his love for
those two children who thus bravely tried to help him grew greater, and
taught him more, day by day.
Frances had found her contentment, and was “happy again”. Her loyal
friend Florry might now have roamed the Continent, if this desired
consummation had indeed sufficed to send her there. But happy, busy
Frances was more than ever a companion to be sought by a girl who never
had been otherwise than happy and busy. Florry “begged lifts” from Dr.
Brenton oftener than ever, and enjoyed her part in the cookery and
housework quite as much as she enjoyed the talks about books and the
comparisons of lessons which came in between, when folks wanted a rest.
Austin was positively refused regular employment as maid-of-all-work,
so he kept on the look-out and seized his chances. At night he would
prowl about in search of the family boots, and would hide them in a
secret nook, so that in the morning he might try his hand at a new and
original system of “blacking”. He would creep through the house, gather
up the mats in a swoop, and depart, chuckling, to do mighty execution
in the back-yard. Max, if on the spot, of course assisted like a man
and a brother. Frances only had to hint that any special cleansing
process was under consideration, and three young Altruists got ready
for the fray.
* * * * *
“Hi, old man! How’s that for a carpet?”
Jim, anxious-eyed but smiling, professed profound admiration, and
disappeared within his shed.
It was an April afternoon. Max and Austin, armed with flat sticks,
stood on either side of a well-stretched rope, whereon hung the
study carpet. The Altruists were spring-cleaning, and Rowdon Cottage
resounded with their songs of triumph. Jim had timidly suggested
Elizabeth as a helper, but the idea had been rejected with scorn.
Kind Mrs. Fane had taken a hint from Florry, and had carried off Mrs.
Morland to spend a week with her--“while the children amused themselves
turning everything upside down”. Florry went to Rowdon to keep Frances
company, by way of exchange of guests; and other Altruists dropped in
promiscuously to “lend a hand”. It was the Easter holidays, so persons
of leisure were free to make themselves useful.
Max and Austin stood wiping their fevered brows and admiring their
work. They were on the drying-green, which widened out into an orchard
that was the pride of Rowdon Cottage. Presently to the green entered a
little procession.
Firstly, Guy Gordon, bearing a pile of footstools, and thumping the top
one energetically as he marched to a whistled war-song. Next, Florry,
carrying cushions many and various. Then, Frances, with an armful of
curtains. Next, the small and rosy-cheeked boy--brother to Guy--who
long ago had inquired of Frances, “What is an Altruist?” Bertie bore
nothing except himself, and found the task sufficient, for indeed he
was plumper than Betty Turner. Last of all came Betty herself, with
a basket of stockings and socks. Betty had volunteered to bring the
cottage darning and mending up to date as her contribution to the
proceedings. One can sit very comfortably on a bank under a tree while
one darns the family hose.
Then arose a very Babel. The various persons of the procession betook
themselves to convenient spots in the orchard, and set about their
business. Guy deposited his footstools on the grass, and thrusting a
stick into the hand of small Bertie, left him with the laconic order:
“See there isn’t a grain of dust in them when I get back!”
Then off flew Guy to the carpet-beating, which was more inspiriting
than footstools. The flat sticks started afresh to the tune of “Three
Jolly Sailor Boys”, roared in lusty trebles. Frances, with Florry’s
aid, shook her curtains, Betty seated herself picturesquely out of
reach of the dust, Bertie banged away to his heart’s content, and the
orchard echoed the drying-green in a rousing chorus. Round about,
the fruit-trees, in all their loveliness of pink and white, averted
the dazzling April sunshine. Betty, among the violets and primroses,
examined heels and toes with critical attention, while her voice joined
involuntarily in the “Sailor Boys”.
“Isn’t it jolly?” demanded Max, during a pause for breath. “Here’s an
Altruist entertainment given gratis and for nothing to the ducks and
chickens! Now, then, girls, it’s your turn to lead off. Let’s have
something sweet!”
Frances started Mendelssohn’s “Farewell to the Forest”, and Miss
Carlyon’s “Selected Choir” gave three parts in melodious first and
second treble and alto. Jim brought his work to the door of his shed
and listened happily. The sound of the young voices, ringing through
the clear spring air, came to his ears as a reminder of his changed
conditions, which had in them much of trouble, yet more of joy.
Back and forward between cottage and orchard went the merry troop
through the long afternoon. A very respectable amount of work had been
got through when, at half-past five, Frances called a halt for tea.
By common consent the pleasant meal was taken out of doors, under the
apple-boughs. The girls went into the house, cut bread-and-butter,
and piled plates with scones and cakes, while the boys spread the
cloth and fetched and carried. All the visiting Altruists had brought
contributions to the feast, but Elizabeth’s scones, left at the door
with Mrs. Macbean’s respectful duty, were in chief demand.
“Good old Elizabeth!” chuckled Austin. “She’s a first-rater. She bakes
scones once a week, and never forgets ‘Mr. Jim’. I say, Mr. Jim, here’s
a second supply, well-buttered. Finished? What rot! Pull him down, Max,
and send up his cup!”
“I made this cake myself, Jim,” whispered Florry. “It’s ever so
sweet--and all boys like sweet things.”
Jim, always grateful for Florry’s simple friendliness, found he could
eat the cake nicely. He was next supplied with an egg, which Guy’s hen
had been obliging enough to lay, and Betty to boil, on purpose for him.
Frances would be hurt if he did not do justice to her home-made brown
bread. Altogether, the youngsters took care that Jim’s tea was a hearty
one. The lad had dropped, some time ago, the idea that these girls
and boys might despise the blacksmith-brother. He knew, without any
sentimental demonstrativeness on their part, that they all accounted
him “a brick”, and he tried earnestly to deserve the flattering
compliment. He did not know how industriously Frances and Austin sang
his praises, and with what honest pride they spoke of the hard and
self-denying toil which set so high an example that they could not but
be up and struggling to follow it.
Tea over, work began again, and lasted till the shadows lengthening
“from each westward thing” brought the Altruists’ busy day to a close.
The visitors straggled homeward, with Frances, Florry, and Austin
travelling as far as the Common to speed them on their way. They were
very tired, and very jolly, and very well pleased with themselves. Who
could say that spring-cleaning had not its aspects picturesque and
poetic? Who could deny these virtuous labourers the right to rouse the
echoes with a song of parting, and with yet another to the next good
meeting?
Austin ran all the way home that he might coax Jim out for a peaceful
stroll. Frances and Florry, left together, exchanged confidences and
opinions after their manner. At length, among desultory talk, Florry
suddenly opened a brisk campaign.
“Frances, do you remember saying, when you first went to Rowdon, that
you couldn’t come back to our Society--your Society--till you were
gooder?”
Frances assented doubtfully.
“Well, you’re just as much gooder as any mortal girl wants to be.”
Frances kept expressive silence.
“If you were any gooder than you are now, I should be certain you were
falling into a decline. Anyway, you’re an Altruist of Altruists, if our
motto counts for anything, for I’m sure you ‘help others’ all day long.
We’ve a meeting to-morrow evening. I am going over to it, and I mean to
take you with me, and Austin too. It’s a mixed meeting--girls and boys;
and afterwards we’ve a choir practice.”
Frances’s eyes kindled as she heard of these remembered joys. She was
by no means unhealthily self-introspective by nature; and since she
had repented her unworthy treatment of Jim, and done her best to make
amends, the load of sensitive shame and humiliation had seemed to
fall from her heart. Need she longer hold aloof from the comrades to
whom she had once ventured to speak--parrot-like, as it now appeared
to her awakened sense, and ignorant of real issues--such brave words
of fellowship and admiration towards all those who did worthily the
world’s exacting work? Might she not again take her place among them,
better instructed and less ready to instruct?
Florry found that persuasion was not needed. Frances was too sincere
to profess a belief in difficulties which time had swept away. She
replied, very truthfully and willingly, that she longed to refill the
Altruist work-basket.
“I could give odd half-hours to it, you know, Florry. The mornings are
so light now, I could easily rise a little earlier.”
“Mamma says it is always the busy people who do the most. Oh, dear
Frances, I am so glad! You will see, to-morrow, how badly you have been
missed.”