A Girl of To-day

by Ellinor Davenport Adams

His interview with Mrs. Morland had been really a trial to the sensitive, country-bred lad; and he could not find courage to witness his sister’s reception of the tidings he supposed would come to her as a fresh calamity. Jim suffered here for his pardonable moral cowardice; for even Austin, who knew how Frances had drooped under the burden of suspense and uncertainty, was surprised at the relief she showed when he had explained what lay before her. Frances rose to the occasion like the plucky lass she always had tried to be. That very evening she began to work at the necessary packing; and her mother, hearing the girl’s cheerful voice when she came for instructions, felt an unreasonable impatience because what she would herself so greatly miss seemed to have small value in her children’s eyes.

Frances was not in the least insensible to the worth of what she was leaving behind, but out of the depths of her late despondency it was good to rise to a level whence she might look bravely and gratefully on the possibilities of the future. In the first place, she knew that the question of acknowledging her brother was at last settled beyond dispute, and that the injustice done to him was to be removed, however tardily. She had done nothing to bring this about, and she was quick to see that atonement on her own part must be of another sort—if, indeed, there were any compensation Jim would care to accept. She could at least take heed that she did not now mistake her brother’s motives, or under-estimate the sacrifice he was ready to make. He had shown himself capable of chivalrous forgiveness, and the higher part of her nature was eager to respond.

Frances’s admiration and her longing to make amends were freely confessed to Muriel Carlyon, who sympathized with both, and had good counsel to give.

“Don’t overwhelm the boy with formal apologies and embarrassing praises, dear child. You would only make him uncomfortable. Try to let him see that you like and trust him, and want to help him all you can. It’s no light duty he has undertaken. You, more than anybody, can make it a pleasant one.”

When Frances came to attempt the putting in practice of her friend’s advice, she found an obstacle in the barrier of shyness and constraint which the unlucky past had raised between her and her elder brother. Jim was obviously uneasy in her presence—dreading, poor fellow, a criticism which he had every reason to think would be to his disadvantage. He came to Elveley, during the three days of waiting, as little as he could; though, as Mrs. Morland seemed determined to fulfil literally her expressed intention of “retiring into private life”, he was obliged to act for her at every point, to give all necessary orders about the removal, and to interview, as her appointed representative, all persons who had business with her. Jim did his utmost; but at Elveley he grew each moment more weary and dispirited, as he recognized more and more clearly the difference between the surroundings to which his stepmother and her children had been accustomed and those into which he had offered to take them. He kept his forebodings secret, but they worried him none the less.

The long-continued trouble had at last brought Frances one comfort which made amends for everything. It had given Austin—the old Austin—back to her, and had shown the lad at his best. His manly instincts had come into evidence, and he had hovered patiently about his mother and sister, assuring them that he would soon be grown-up, and able to work for them. Then they would all be happy again. Meanwhile—as growing-up is a slow process—he was content to leave to Jim the ordering of affairs. He knew that he meant from the beginning to do his share, but he wisely refrained from informing his mother that his accomplishment of horse-shoeing was at length to “come in handy”.

Frances, too, had laid her plans, and meant to be a busy little housewife. She had confided to Muriel Carlyon all the doubts and difficulties which had made her hold aloof from her favourite comrades, even to the extent of deserting her cherished Society; and now, feeling that at last she possessed no worrying secrets and was fairly on the road to recover her self-respect, Frances rejoiced in the possession of a true friend to whom she might turn for the encouragement she could not find at home. On the day before the departure from Elveley, she paid a “farewell” visit (only Muriel scouted the word “farewell”) to Woodbank, and entertained herself and her companion with a discussion of her coming diversions.

“I am going to be ever so useful,” she announced blithely. “It wasn’t for nothing, after all, that we girls started our Club. We’ve learned to cook and to iron, and I’ve not forgotten your lessons in cutting-out. I can make my own frocks and things, and the boys’ shirts.—I call Austin and Jim ‘the boys’,” she went on with a little flush, “so that I may get used to thinking of them together.”

“You know where to come for help, darling.”

“Yes, thank you. Oh, I’m so glad we’re going to Rowdon, not to some quite strange place, far away from you and the girls! Miss Carlyon, we had a little bit of good news this morning. Mamma’s lawyer wrote to tell her that the people who have made her sell Elveley are going to let her keep some of her favourite books and pictures and furniture—anything she likes up to a certain value—and some of her glass and silver. And Austin and I may have all our very own things: so that Austin is going to take his cameras, and Jim has promised him a dark-room. That will be so nice for him, won’t it? He has a fine stock of plates and chemicals, and we must make them last as long as we can. They’ll keep a good while. Most of Mamma’s things were chosen and packed at once, and have gone away to-day. Austin went with them, to help Jim.”