“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.