CHAPTER XIV.
MRS. MORLAND’S TRIO.
Mrs. Morland, in a sober evening dress of black silk, inhabited her sitting-room in solitary state. The nest her children’s love had prepared for her was fresh and sweet as an Altruist spring-cleaning could make it; and its occupant, surrounded by pretty and dainty things, looked in no want of pity as she sat by her cosy fireside, a volume of Tennyson in her hands. Yet on this particular evening the leisurely reader seemed not entirely at ease. Her eyes wandered continually from her book, and the expression of her face had for once lost its satisfaction with self and impatience with the rest of the world. In thought as in act Mrs. Morland was slow to admit novelty; but a simple occurrence of the afternoon had touched her imagination, and inclined her to observe intelligently various matters which helped to make the small sum of her daily experience.
A little earlier she had been entertaining visitors—only Muriel and Edward Carlyon. But those young people possessed alert and vigorous individualities which were apt to leave a track where they had been. They talked well on a good many subjects, and had the pleasant knack of choosing those subjects with due regard to their company. Mrs. Morland liked them both, and was by no means insensible to the kindness which had made Frances and Austin their pupils still. So she had listened graciously, and spoken a few appropriate words of thanks when the brother and sister had warmly commended her children’s progress.
“How proud you must be of them!” Miss Carlyon had exclaimed, determined to do her favourites justice. “Do you know, I think no one ever had a brighter trio than yours.”
Mrs. Morland stiffened perceptibly as she heard the word “trio”.
“My two children always have given me every satisfaction,” she replied with emphasis.
“Never more than now, I am sure,” said Muriel gently.
“Jim is a first-rate fellow,” remarked Edward. “Boyish for his years, perhaps, and overpoweringly conscientious. But I believe, when he goes out into the world, he will make his mark.”
“He is a worthy, unassuming lad,” said Mrs. Morland indifferently. “I should hardly have credited him with more than an average share of brains. Of course, I readily admit that he has had no advantages.”
Edward gaily contested the point, arguing that in learning to use his hands as well as his head, Jim had provided himself with two forces instead of one to aid him in doing battle with difficulties. Mrs. Morland declined to show interest in Jim, but she listened courteously to her stepson’s praises, and left her combatant in possession of the field.
The two visitors were disarmed, and began to think they might hitherto have done their hostess injustice on some points at least. They had walked out of set purpose to Rowdon that afternoon, after stirring up each other, as their habit was, to undertake a doubtful errand. They were wondering now whether they might not hope—with the mother in this gracious mood—to make that errand something of a success.
“And how is Frances, our own dear Altruist?” questioned Muriel presently. “I thought yesterday that she was looking pale and tired.”
“Indeed! I have not heard her complain. She has excellent health, fortunately, and is altogether stronger than Austin.”
“Oh, Austin will make a sturdy fellow by and by,” said Carlyon cheerily.
“Meanwhile,” said Muriel tentatively, “I hope our pair of pickles aren’t overdoing it? You will forgive me, Mrs. Morland, I’m sure, if I intrude on you with selfish anxieties. You see, Edward and I can’t contemplate with equanimity the loss of our pupils, and Frances has been telling me that she is afraid she must give up some of her studies.”
Mrs. Morland flushed angrily. “She has said nothing of the kind to me.”
“She would not wish to worry you,” added Muriel in haste; “and she did not speak definitely—only, I understood it was a question between home duties and school lessons. As Frances has passed the Oxford Junior Locals, I wanted her to get ready for the Senior; but if she has not time for the necessary preparation, there is no more to be said.”
“I had a scholarship in view for Austin,” said Carlyon, before Mrs. Morland could speak. The brother and sister felt themselves on thorny ground, and feared a retreat might be forced on them. “It would help to take him to the University. Still, he is right to stick to his sister.”
“You mustn’t let our foolish ambitions vex you, dear Mrs. Morland,” said Muriel, rising to lay her hand with a pretty gesture on the elder woman’s arm. “If our young people choose the better part, we can only love them all the more, and be all the more proud of them. They will learn a great deal in helping Jim. Do you know, I am quite jealous of Frances’s success as a rival teacher? Now, Edward, you and I must run away. We are due at the rectory at six o’clock.”
The visitors said good-bye to a very stately, monosyllabic hostess, whose geniality had vanished, and left moroseness behind. At first Mrs. Morland was strongly moved to summon Frances for a severe lecture, but she felt herself handicapped by her ignorance as to the truth. She had no real knowledge of the manner in which her children spent their days; and had objected to the work they had undertaken, in Elizabeth’s place, on account of its nature, not because she realized its amount. But if it were indeed the case that sweeping and scrubbing had absorbed the hours due to Latin and mathematics, in what direction could she exercise her authority? Somebody must sweep and scrub, if the spotlessness on which Mrs. Morland tacitly insisted were to be maintained at Rowdon Cottage.
For a time, indignation with her “trio” and their too officious friends occupied Mrs. Morland’s thoughts entirely; but compunctions were stirring her memory, and she began to recall more exactly, and to examine more thoroughly, the few remarks her late visitors had made. She wondered whether she had indeed left it to an outsider to notice that Frances looked “pale and tired”, and why her girl and boy should not have come first of all to their mother with their doubts as to their ability to keep up their lessons. Mrs. Morland had seen plainly that the Carlyons had spoken with some trepidation and fear of giving offence. She felt obliged to admit that they had not willingly broken the laws of good taste, but had made an honest effort to serve their young friends by letting fall such hints as might induce the children’s mother to give more attention to their affairs.
Mrs. Morland’s thoughts were still dwelling on these matters, when the door opened softly and Frances entered, carrying a snowy table-cloth of finest damask, such as it was Elizabeth’s pride to handle. Next came Austin, with a folding-stand and butler’s tray, which he set up close to the door. Mrs. Morland was seated so that she could face her children, and she watched them furtively from the cover of her fan. The young pair were so unaccustomed to attract their mother’s notice while about their daily duties that they behaved as though she were as deep in Tennyson as they supposed her to be.
Frances deftly spread the cloth, while Austin fussed gravely over his tray. Presently they began to lay the covers for two, and to deck the table with pretty crystal and silver. There were no “specimen” vases, but they had a big bowl filled with white narcissus and ivy for a centre-piece.
“Is Jim ready?” questioned Frances in a low voice. “I have no soup to-day, but Mr. Carlyon brought a lovely pair of soles, and I have fried them most beautifully. Mamma likes fried soles. Jim is so thoughtful, he is sure to remember to say he won’t have any; then there will be one left for Mamma’s breakfast.”
“Good!” said Austin laconically. “Isn’t there anything for Jim?”
“Silly! Of course there is! I made rissoles out of that cold beef.”
Austin sighed.
“I have kept one back for you, dear,” said Frances quickly. “I know you hate cold beef. You shall eat that delicious rissole while I dish the pudding.”
The two now wrangled in undertones as to which should enjoy the comparative dainty of a rissole, and Mrs. Morland laughed behind her fan until she feared detection. Finally, Austin decided that the morsel should be halved, and the preparations then proceeded in uninterrupted solemnity.
“Is Jim ready?” inquired Frances again. “My soles will be spoilt if dinner is kept waiting.”
“Oh, Jim’s all right. He’s turning out the potatoes.”
“Austin! Last time Jim meddled with the potatoes he let one drop into the ashes—and he nearly spoiled his best coat!”
“Well, if he’s such a duffer he must go without, himself.”
“I shall fly to the rescue. Oh, Austin, you promised to mix the fresh mustard!”
“Crikey! So I did! I’ll do it now, in half a jiffey.”
“Come then; it’s half-past eight already!”
Frances retired in haste to the kitchen, packed Jim off to the sitting-room, and served up her three courses in fine style. Mrs. Morland, intent on observations, dined almost in silence; and Jim, amazed to find neither his mind nor his manners undergoing improvement, wondered nervously of what heinous offence he had been guilty unawares. Austin brought in the dishes, and waited at table with the utmost confidence and resource. It was his little joke to call himself Adolphus the page-boy, in which character he indulged in various small witticisms, chiefly, it must be owned, for the benefit of Frances. When he had placed a scanty dessert before his mother, he went off, to reappear immediately in Frances’s wake in his own character of Master Austin Morland.
He wore an evening suit of black velvet, which, having been made eighteen months before, was an exceedingly tight fit for its owner. Mrs. Morland now became aware of the fact, and felt a sudden qualm as she anticipated the time when the children’s stock of good, well-made clothing would be finally worn out or outgrown. She determined to put off, for that evening at least, her intended demand for the immediate re-engagement of Elizabeth, and the release of Frances from “household drudgery”. She would hardly have acknowledged that a part of that forbearing resolution was due to the awakened eyes with which she now regarded the third of her “trio”. Jim’s face was pale and tired beyond all possibility of concealment.
The meal was ended. Mrs. Morland returned to her Tennyson, and the trio returned to their various tasks. For more than an hour the solitary woman sat on by her fireside deep in thought. Glancing up, at length, she saw that her clock pointed to a quarter-past ten, and it occurred to her that the children had not yet come to bid her good-night. Rising with a little shiver, for the room was growing chilly, she crossed the passage to the study, and, opening the door gently, peered in. The three students were gathered together, to share the light of the single small lamp. Frances was correcting an exercise for Jim, who listened intently while she lucidly explained his mistakes. Austin struggled with Greek verbs, repeating them under his breath, while he held his hands to his ears, and rocked his body to and fro, after the familiar fashion of industrious schoolboys.
Consternation took the place of contentment when Mrs. Morland made the young folks aware of her presence by inquiring whether they knew the hour.
“It is a quarter-past ten,” she remarked, her voice falling on a guilty silence. “You know, Frances and Austin, I do not like you to be up later than ten.”
“We have nearly finished, Mamma. We go to Woodbank to-morrow, and we shall not have our lessons ready unless we do them to-night.”
“Why not, pray? Are there no morning hours before you? And what is this I hear from Miss Carlyon, Frances? Have you really taken it upon yourself to tell her, without first consulting me, that you are prepared to dispense with her kind help?”
“Oh, Mamma,” exclaimed Frances, “Miss Carlyon could not have thought—. Indeed, I didn’t say it that way!”
“Perhaps not,” said Mrs. Morland, half-ashamed of her injustice; “but you said it in some way, and I am very much annoyed. A child like you has no business to decide for herself whether she will or will not accept so great a favour.”
“I only didn’t want to worry you, Mamma; and I didn’t think—I didn’t guess you would mind about my lessons.”
“I dare say your intentions were good, Frances,” said Mrs. Morland less sharply; “but you certainly should have come to me first. You cannot really have been so foolish as to suppose that I am indifferent about your studies. They may be of the utmost importance to you some day.”
“I know,” said Frances eagerly. “So, won’t you let me sit up a little later sometimes?”
“I can’t do that, for the best of reasons. You rise—as I know to my cost—very early; and I must insist on your taking proper rest. But I see no obstacle to your finding plenty of opportunity for study in the daytime. What is it that comes in the way?”
Frances glanced up at Jim, and meeting his troubled look answered pleadingly:
“I’ll tell you all about it when you come upstairs to-night, Mamma dear. Won’t that do?”
“Very well,” replied Mrs. Morland, feeling a new and strange reluctance to prolong the discomfort she had brought to the industrious little group. Memory again spoke in her ears with Miss Carlyon’s voice the familiar words about choosing the better part. She went back to her room, stirred the smouldering fire, and sank into her luxurious chair. Something—could it be conscience?—was stirring fiercely within her; and qualities long dormant rose up and cried her shame.
She had been alone but a few minutes when Jim came into the room. The lad, still white and weary-eyed, moved with his quiet, undisturbing step to Mrs. Morland’s side.
“I wanted to tell you something,” he began diffidently; “something perhaps you don’t know. It is that, for a good while back, the children have been helping me—teaching me, I mean, besides learning their own lessons. I wanted so much to learn, that I’m afraid I forgot how I was taking up their time; but indeed I never guessed that Missy was going to leave off any of her lessons with Miss Carlyon. Of course I will manage so that she need not. I hope you won’t worry, or be vexed with Missy. It’s all my fault.”
“And how do you propose to ‘manage’, as you say?”
Mrs. Morland’s keen gaze fell steadily on her stepson’s face.
“I will not let Missy be troubled with me,” said Jim. “That will make some difference.”
“But you want to learn?”
“Ay. I will learn, too, somehow, but not at the children’s cost. I can do a smith’s work without Latin; but my brother and sister are to be something different.”
“You are resolved on that?”
“Ay.”
“And if they do not teach you, they will have time for their own studies?”
“I cannot tell that; but I can easily get up an hour earlier and help more in the house.”
“When do you rise now, James?”
“Not till five,” replied Jim eagerly. “It would be nothing to rise at four.”
“But if my ears haven’t deceived me, I’ve heard stealthy steps going to your bedroom at one, and even two, in the morning.”
Jim stood detected and confused.
“Well,” said Mrs. Morland calmly, “I’ll think over matters and let you know if I agree to your ingenious plan. Meanwhile, James, I would rather you went to bed a little earlier and rose a little later. And I object to your giving up your lessons with the children. I have no doubt that in helping you they help themselves; but in any case I wish you to go on remembering that if you are a blacksmith you are also a gentleman.”
Mrs. Morland enjoyed the knowledge that her stepson was utterly astonished and subdued; and she went on in the same level tone:
“I never was more convinced of the latter fact than I am this evening. Now, good-night, James! Go to bed, and get rid of that headache.”
During the whole of the following couple of days Mrs. Morland displayed an unwonted activity, though in a direction her children found terribly discomfiting. On this or that pretext she contrived to maintain a careful watch on everybody’s movements, and some of the youngsters’ most cherished and harmless secrets were dragged to light. Thus, Frances was surprised by her mother in the act of “washing out” certain dainty frills which it always had been supposed were left to Mrs. Macbean’s tender mercies. Austin was discovered peeling potatoes in the study, whither he had been banished for fear of draughts, while Jim cleaned the kitchen windows. And Jim’s feelings may be imagined when his workshop was invaded by the stately presence of his stepmother, who had donned a shawl and wandered through the darkness merely to inquire if he happened to know whether a quarter to ten were the correct time.
Mrs. Morland’s inspection was thorough enough to supply her with a basis of facts whereon to build further meditations and resolutions. Perhaps the latter were confirmed by a conversation she overheard through a door left ajar accidentally:
“I say, Frances, isn’t the Mater getting awfully spry? She has been going about no end the last two days.”
“Yes. She seems ever so much better and stronger, doesn’t she? Wouldn’t it be jolly if she would come for a walk with us sometimes, and go visiting a little, as she used to? She wouldn’t always be so dull if she had more change.”
“She came and watched me feed my chickens this morning. Fancy! she said she had no idea I had gone in for poultry rearing! I believe I must have forgotten to tell her about it. I showed her my ducklings, too, and promised her one for dinner soon.”
“Mamma asked me where I had learned to make such nice puddings. Wasn’t it dear of her to notice? I shall turn out lovely pancakes to-night—she likes pancakes.”
“Anybody would like your pancakes. May I have the little burnt one at the end?”
“You unkind boy, it isn’t always burnt! Perhaps I’ll give you a whole proper one for a treat, as you provide the eggs.”
On the third day after the Carlyons’ visit, Mrs. Morland once more surprised the little housewife and her male servitors. They were at breakfast in the kitchen; for Frances, to save coal, had decreed that the study fire should not be lighted in the early morning.
“Is this an innovation, young people?” demanded the newcomer amiably. “Thank you, James; I will take Austin’s chair, and he can fetch another. Really”—and Mrs. Morland glanced critically round the bright, clean kitchen—“you look remarkably comfortable here. Your copper pans do you credit, Frances.”
“Jim scoured the pans, Mamma dear,” said the girl, recovering from the shock of discovery. “And I do think they’re pretty. Mayn’t I give you some tea? Oh no! not this, of course—I’ll make some fresh.”
“Nonsense! I’m sure you can spare me a cup of yours. That tea-pot has immense capacity, and if these lads haven’t drained it—”
“Why, there’s lots,” said Austin, lifting the lid of the big brown pot. “Only, you see, Mater, it’s—it’s a little nurseryfied. Frances doesn’t approve of strong tea for our youthful digestions. I’ve plenty of boiling water in my kettle, and you shall have a special brew.”
Jim had risen quietly and placed a small clothes-horse, over which he had thrown a cloth, between Mrs. Morland and the fire. Meanwhile his stepmother, with a swift glance that escaped detection, had surveyed the young people’s fare. A home-baked loaf, a plate of scones, butter, and marmalade. For Austin alone, a boiled egg. All set out with exquisite cleanliness, and appetizing enough in itself, but hardly sufficient preparation for a long and hard day’s work.
“Frances has found some dainty for my breakfast-tray each morning,” reflected Mrs. Morland, and at that moment Frances spoke.
“Your kidneys are still in the larder, Mamma. Would you like them cooked sooner than usual since you are down so early?”
“They will do nicely for dinner,” said Mrs. Morland. “I am going to breakfast with you, and cannot possibly resist those scones any longer.”
The amazed silence of the group may not have been entirely complimentary, but Mrs. Morland seemed unconcerned, and forced speech on “James” by inquiring whether he were responsible for the shining dish-covers as well as the copper pans. The freshly-made tea was praised generously; and altogether Mrs. Morland showed a welcome disposition to admire everything.
Breakfast over, the workers of the family prepared to set about their usual duties. Jim went off to the forge, Austin departed to feed his chickens, Frances began to clear the breakfast-table.
“I have been thinking,” said Mrs. Morland, while she helped to gather together cups and plates, “that for the future Jim and I will dine with you children in the middle of the day.”
“Mamma!” exclaimed Frances, standing statue-like in her amazement.
“It would be at least an hour’s saving of your time—oh! more than that. However simple your cookery, it must require a good deal of attention; then, there is the serving, and after all the washing of dishes and pans. Why, child, we have hit in a moment on the solution of your difficulty.”
“You never have been used to an early dinner,” said Frances in a troubled voice; “you would hate it.”
“It could not really make the slightest difference to me now,” declared the mother. “When I visited and received visitors, things naturally were arranged according to custom.”
“But, Mamma,” said Frances wistfully, “why should you not visit again? The people worth knowing wouldn’t like us a bit the less because we live in a cottage instead of at Elveley. It is not as though we had done anything wrong. All your favourite friends have called since you have been here—”
“Called!” interrupted Mrs. Morland vehemently “yes—to pry into my affairs and gossip over my changed circumstances. Ah! Frances, you don’t know the world yet, thank Heaven; you look on it still with a girl’s eyes, thoughtless and ignorant. No, you must not attempt to question my judgment in such matters. I could not endure to be pitied.”
“Nor I, Mamma.”
“Then don’t put your acquaintances to the test,” said Mrs. Morland bitterly.
Frances looked up with clear, wondering eyes.
“Would you rather I did not go to our Altruist meetings, then, Mamma? You know, I’ve joined our little club again lately. Of course, all the girls understand that I can be with them only once in a way, and that I can’t make things for our stores, but they don’t seem to mind.”
A smile of pleasure brightened the girl’s face as she recalled the enthusiasm which had greeted her return to the Altruists.
“By all means go to your meetings, child. It was not by my wish that you left off doing so. And by all means attend regularly, and get what fun you can in your dull life. As to the work, you shall not be entirely empty-handed. You and I will set up a work-basket between us; and if we have no new material, we can alter and cut down our own old clothes.”
“Oh, Mamma, that would be lovely!” said Frances gratefully.
“I will look over your wardrobe this afternoon and bring down some of the things you have quite outgrown. And, my dear, I wish you to consider the matter of our meals as settled. We will all dine together, and we shall have nice long evenings. Why, the Altruist work-basket will be a positive blessing to me. You young people mustn’t be surprised if I pay a visit to your study sometimes; it is just a little lonely in my room after dark. I will sew while you are busy with your lessons, and then we shall save a fire. We might let the kitchen fire go out now and then after tea, and keep one in the sitting-room, so that we could have an hour or two’s music. James has a nice voice—you must teach him to sing.” ...
“Mamma!—mamma darling!” Frances had flown to Mrs. Morland. Their cheeks were pressed together, their arms were about one another.
“There—you silly child! I have been thinking the old mother has been out of everything long enough. Run away to your bedrooms; and before you go, lend me your biggest apron. You shall see that I will soon master the professional manner of washing breakfast-cups.”