CHAPTER XII.
A GENTLEMAN-BLACKSMITH.
The energy of the Altruists languished a good deal during the long summer vacation. Edward and Muriel Carlyon went on a six-weeks’ visit to a relative in the north, and enjoyed themselves mightily after a year of hard work. Edward’s black coat did not hinder him from tasting the happiness peculiar to the sportsman-naturalist; and Muriel’s governessing had not taken the charm from her tramps through heather and bracken. A good many of the younger Altruists were off to the seaside: those that remained in Woodend voted it ridiculous to attend meetings over which there was nobody in particular to preside.
Florry Fane received a long-hoped-for invitation to visit an aunt who had settled in Normandy, whence she was in the habit of making frequent excursions to continental cities. The chance of seeing Paris, Rome, and Florence was suddenly flashed before Florry’s dazed eyes, and her parents prepared to miss for a couple of months, at least, the light of their quiet home. Frances Morland did not learn till long afterwards that Florry had turned resolutely from the offered treat because she would not leave her friend in the hour of trouble.
“Paris must wait,” said Florry, “till Frances is happy again.”
The self-denying little Altruist proved that no meetings were necessary to hold her to the accepted motto of her Society. Hardly a day passed without the appearance at Rowdon of her bright face and helpful hands. Jim’s heart grew lighter directly he heard “Miss Fane’s” voice. It was good to hear for its own sake, and then it meant the best of comradeship for Frances.
The Society sent another delegate to do its work at the smithy. Max and Florry frequently travelled the three miles together, arguing as they went with a vivacity learned at the school “symposia”. They never convinced one another, but it was all the better to be able to look forward to a fresh bout of disagreeing next time. Sometimes they walked, sometimes they rode with a friendly farmer or begged a lift in the Doctor’s trap. Journey as they might, they always turned up smiling, contented, and in hot dispute.
It was Max’s fair season at Woodend; the season when his many public concerns made least demand on him, and he was most free to remember private interests. His invalids were at their best; his poor folk were recovering from the effects of the burning heat in their stuffy rooms, and were still independent of warm clothing. Moreover, a wealthy valetudinarian had bought Elveley, and was demanding a daily visit from Dr. Brenton. Max ventured to anticipate the consequent fees, and on his own responsibility borrowed from the “Examinations” fund the wherewithal to present the dog-cart with a new rug and its owner with a new overcoat. Dr. Brenton retaliated by ordering for Max a trim Eton suit—challenging the chancellor of the exchequer to refuse to pay for it, and in so doing to ruin his father’s credit. Then the unconventional pair attired themselves festively, and beamed at each other in the joy of their reciprocal liberality.
Max and Austin were always merry at the smithy, and they did their best to make Jim merry likewise. With fervent good-will they wielded the hammer, and smote the anvil, and practised horse-shoeing until their teacher pronounced them adepts. Sometimes they dragged Jim off to the common, where they had cut and rolled a decent pitch for their cricket. Jim could play, of course, but his science was behind theirs. It seemed to the boys a fair return for lessons in horse-shoeing when their hints, added to natural quickness of eye and hand, had made of Jim a most respectable bowler.
The Morland family had by this time fairly settled at Rowdon, and accepted, after their varying fashion, the fresh order of their lives. The first excitement of change and bustle was over, and with it had gone the impression of relief from pressing disaster, as well as the sense of unrest and adventure which had served to dispel fruitless broodings and cast a glamour of romance over the new cottage-home. Frances and Austin were too busy and too active to sink back into despondency; but their mother suffered acutely—all the more acutely because she shut herself and her gloom out of the reach of the kindliest sympathizers.
Loneliness and misery rendered her harsh and intolerant to the youngsters who longed to comfort her. She was irritated by seeing her own children seemingly happy and contented, and by witnessing the small gaucheries of her stepson’s harmless rusticity. Jim, better able than the younger ones to understand her condition, bore her sharp reproofs and covert sneers with determined self-control. They hurt him none the less; and he suspected that he was despised for the very efforts after a dutiful bearing which cost him so much: but he never had cherished any hope of pleasing or satisfying his stepmother, and was grateful that she kept her promise of not intervening between him and his brother and sister.
It was true that she had not much opportunity of doing so, for the three young people were seldom together. Frances found plenty of ways in which she could help Elizabeth; who was willing to be relieved of lighter duties, though she would not for worlds have allowed her young mistress to do anything she could make time to do herself. Then there were studies to be kept up, books to be read on the recommendation of Miss Carlyon or Florry, old friends to be visited in spare hours, and the family mending to be attended to.
Jim was an excellent craftsman, as his neighbours had soon discovered; but working alone, and with only the simplest appliances, he could not attempt the higher branches of a smith’s trade. He had constant employment, but no greater returns than any other skilled artisan could depend on; and after the first month of his new life had gone by he began to be tormented by anxiety as to ways and means. Part of his weekly income came from his small invested capital, and on the latter he soon found he must draw to meet household expenses. This meant, by and by, a reduction on the interest paid to him in consideration of his grandfather’s savings, and a consequent lessening of his resources.
When Mrs. Morland had first come to Rowdon, he had told her frankly the amount of his income, and had suggested that she should have control over it and make the housekeeping her own charge. Most women would have been touched by the offer, which was surely honourable to the lad who made it.
“My good boy,” replied Mrs. Morland, “you really must excuse me from undertaking the management of your house and the responsibility of your wealth. I have never learned how to spend pennies, and I have no idea when porridge and herrings are in season. I might order by mistake a halfpenny-worth too much milk, and then where would you be? No, believe me, you will manage far better yourself. Or stay, it might amuse Frances to play with sixpences, and she is terribly conscientious. No doubt she would calculate the required milk to a drop. I have always felt sure she had a genius for figures, since she told me she “kept the accounts” of that funny little Society she started and got tired of. Children always get tired of everything; but Frances might find housekeeping quite a pleasant entertainment for a time. Go and ask her, James. And do try to avoid grimacing. It makes me quite uncomfortable to see that frowning brow and those tightly-drawn lips. So like some melodramatic, middle-class novel. Run away, boy. Ta-ta.”
Jim’s courage, after this rebuff, was not equal to the task of approaching Frances, and his sister would have heard nothing of the interview if Mrs. Morland had not diverted herself by giving Frances a special version of it. The girl listened in silence, and with half-acknowledged regret on Jim’s behalf. Frances felt instinctively that Jim had made an honest advance, and that he had been unworthily answered.
She was sorry that time did not prove correct her mother’s prophecy that her brother would come to her next; and she debated anxiously with herself whether he would be vexed if she were to offer to try her own prentice hand at the ordering of the cottage affairs. Jim had certainly invited her to remember that she was “mistress” at Rowdon; there could be no undaughterly presumption in filling the place her mother had refused.
Frances decided that Jim had better be the one to open the question; but Jim held his tongue, and bore his own burdens. He had been accustomed to leave the provisioning of his little household to Elizabeth, and to pay the weekly bills without investigation. Now he found that he must not only investigate, but urge on Mrs. Macbean the strictest economy. Even then, as has been said, his income must be supplemented somehow.
Further, the lad worried himself about the arrested education of his young brother and sister. At first it was undivided happiness to have Austin so constantly at his side, and to catch glimpses of Frances tending the flowers or feeding the chickens. But when he found his brother obstinately determined to help in the smithy, and discovered that his sister actually made beds and dusted rooms, he began to accuse himself of grossly neglected duties.
Edward and Muriel Carlyon had sought out Mrs. Morland on their return home, and had begged her in most tactful fashion to let them keep their two pupils without payment of school-fees. Mrs. Morland’s pride had not been sufficient to render her quite blind to the value of the opportunity; but she had tried to save her self-esteem by leaving the matter for the children’s own settlement. Austin and Frances were not blind either, and they saw more clearly now than before what a good education might mean to them. They had talked the subject over together, they had invited the counsel of Florry and Max. It was significant that they did not seek their mother’s advice. Finally, they went to Woodbank in company, and put their concerns bravely and fully before their two kindly friends and teachers.
Frances and Austin did not go back to school, but they went twice a week to Woodbank for private lessons in modern languages, classics, and mathematics, and studied at home between whiles. Every evening they spent at least a couple of hours over their books, and found chances for music and drawing as best they could in the daytime.
It was this custom which led, one evening in November, to an unexpected development in the quiet life of Rowdon Cottage. The boy and girl (Austin being the chief spokesman) had persuaded Jim that they would not accept sole rights in his old “den”. He must spend there his few hours of leisure, and a book-case brought from Elveley should be consecrated to his library. Jim at first availed himself but sparingly of his opportunities. Usually he worked all the early part of the evening in the smithy or the shed, and later on disappeared into the little lumber attic where he had disposed the tools and materials for his wood-carving. But sometimes he would slip quietly into the children’s room—the study, as they chose to call it,—and after a respectful, interested glance at the pair of young students seated opposite one another, with the shaded lamp between them, at the round table, would take a book from his shelf and try to remember that he was one of the family.
On the evening in question, Frances had noticed that Jim had betaken himself to his own corner with a volume which she had seen with some surprise to be Green’s Short History of the English People. The lad read steadily for an hour or so, and Frances, each time she looked up, saw that his attention was firmly fixed on the page. But presently Jim leaned back in his chair, his book rested on his knee, and his eyes were turned towards the round table with an expression which his sister found uncomfortably suggestive of some latent longing. She hesitated for a moment, and then said diffidently:
“Don’t you like your book, Jim?”
“Yes, but I’ve finished it, thank you, Missy.”
Jim had not learned to say “Frances”; but “Missy”, as he pronounced it, had the accents of a pet-name, and his sister had ceased to find fault with it.
“Fancy! You must read fast. Can you remember all those names and things? I do think it’s difficult.”
“I’ve read this book three times,” said Jim gently. He had read, ever since he could remember, all the historical works he could get hold of. “I ought to remember it now, Missy.”
“Do you want to?” asked Frances curiously.
“Ay—surely. Else, what good to be an Englishman?”
“Jim,” began Frances after anxious cogitation, “would you like—would you care—to study with Austin and me?” The girl flushed a little as she went on hurriedly: “There are heaps of things I dare say you know far more about than we do; but there are some ... and Papa would have liked....”
Poor Frances stopped in awkward fear of hurting the lowly-reared brother.
She need not have paused. The words were hardly spoken when Jim’s face lighted up with eager pleasure.
“Missy—I’d love it! Oh, would you—could you—?”
“Of course we could,” interrupted Austin with a merry laugh. “Jim, old man, you are an eccentric. Fancy meeting a fellow who needn’t stew at lessons, and actually wants to! Come to the table this very minute!” Austin flew to drag up a third chair and force Jim into it. “Now then, what’s it to be first—classics or mathematics?”
“Austin, don’t worry, dear,” said Frances, seeing that Jim’s breath came fast from the excitement of what was to him a momentous opportunity. “Tell Jim the lessons we have at Woodbank, then he can choose what he would like best.”
Then Jim seized his chance and spoke.
“I’d like best to learn to speak right, Missy,” said the youth earnestly; “so as you’d have no need, some day, to feel shame of me.”
It was a hard thing to say, but Jim got through it.
Frances was on the point of disclaiming vehemently. She was checked by the certainty that her brother would not believe her. Had she not long ago proved him right?
“Humph!” said Austin, again filling the breach; “that’s in your line, Sis. ‘Grammar and Analysis’, and all that twaddle. I hate the stuff.”
“Very well,” agreed Frances quickly, “Jim and I will study subjects and objects; and you’ll see, sir, my pupil won’t hate them.”
“And you’ll see, miss, that my pupil will cross the Pons Asinorum with a leap and a bound.”
“My pupil will read Latin without a crib.”
“My pupil will parley-voo frangsay like a gay moonseer.”
“You ridiculous boy!”
“You cockaleekie girl!”
Austin flung his arm round his brother’s shoulders and hugged them with a will.
“Don’t mind us, Jim,” he said. “We must lark a bit, and so must you. We’ll be awful strict teachers, and give you a hundred lines every time you miss a question. But you may wink one eye between whiles.”
Austin’s mirth drowned Jim’s attempted thanks. But the younger boy suddenly became sober, and thrusting his Euclid under Jim’s eyes, entered on a careful explanation of certain well-known axioms necessary to the comprehension of the First Proposition. Then Frances delivered a lucid lecture on the Nominative Case. Finally, Jim carried off a couple of lesson-books to his corner, and set to work to recall half-forgotten rudiments learned long ago at elementary schools, and to assure himself that he never would disgrace the pair of accomplished scholars he had left at the round table.
Elizabeth kept a divided opinion with regard to Mrs. Morland, but the discords feared by Jim were not heard at Rowdon Cottage. The chief reason for the comparative harmony which reigned between kitchen and sitting-room was the undisguised satisfaction of Mrs. Macbean in being again in contact with gentle-people, and in seeing her young master recognized as one of them. It is to be feared that her estimation of “gentlefolk” was strictly conventional, and that in her heart of hearts she thought all the more of her “fine leddy” mistress because Mrs. Morland never dreamed of soiling her fingers over household matters, but maintained a dignified privacy among the remnants of her former prosperity.
Elizabeth found that a late dinner was expected as a matter of course. Here, there might have been a difficulty, since the old woman had been in the habit of going home to her “gudeman” as soon as she had served Jim’s tea and “tidied up”. But while ordering dinner for half-past eight, Mrs. Morland happened to mention that her stepson would dine with her; and Elizabeth immediately became complaisant.
Jim’s soul grew faint within him when he was informed of the coming ordeal—a dinner à deux with his stepmother. A refusal was on the poor lad’s lips, but he held it back. He could do nothing, he supposed, to narrow the gulf between himself and his father’s second wife; but he had determined that no act or word of his should make the gulf wider. He assented quietly to Mrs. Morland’s peremptory demand for his company in the sitting-room at half-past eight, and promised meekly enough to don his Sunday suit before he ventured to present himself.
He imagined that his stepmother’s request was prompted solely by a desire to “teach him manners”, and so render him a little more presentable to her friends; but in this he did Mrs. Morland less than justice. She was slow to act in matters for any reason displeasing to her; but having once taken a step in any direction, she did not care to turn back. She had been, in her own limited sense, in earnest when she had said that she would henceforth regard Jim as the head of the family. She meant him to endure to the full the penalties attaching at present to the unenviable position, and would not strain a nerve to lighten his load; but she intended also to see that a certain respect and consideration should be offered him by everyone except herself, and it was a part of her plan that he should be found in her company on fitting occasions.
The family meals were served in the children’s study, but at none of these was the mother present. Her breakfast was carried up to her bedroom, and she lunched alone in her sitting-room. It was Austin’s duty to take her cup backward and forward across the passage at the children’s tea-hour. After dinner Frances and Austin were ordered to appear for dessert. Thus Mrs. Morland attempted to retain among her present surroundings some of the customs and restrictions of the life she had been used to; though the imitation might be a faint likeness of the model, and the result pathetic rather than impressive.
The various courses of the meal were perhaps only Scotch broth, broiled chicken, and rice-pudding, and the dessert a dish of apples and another of nuts. But the glass, china, and silver were the joy of Elizabeth’s soul; and the simple food must be served most daintily. Jim was right in anticipating severe drilling and remorseless fault-finding; yet, taking all in wise humility, he had sense to acknowledge that the experience had its value. He soon learned to satisfy Mrs. Morland’s requirements as to his comportment at table, and his association with her and her children taught him quickly to note the errors in his speech and to correct them for himself.
“The lad is no dullard,” admitted the victorious stepmother in her thoughts; “he will be a gentleman before he knows it. A gentleman-blacksmith! Delightful absurdity! Oh, shall we never escape from this dreadful place!”