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.”