A Girl of To-day

by Ellinor Davenport Adams

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?”