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.