The Carlyons—Edward and Muriel—were working, in part, a reformation. Edward Carlyon, Master of Arts of Oxford University, had established a small private school for boys; Muriel Carlyon, sometime student of Girton College, and graduate of London, had done as much for the girls. The Woodend youngsters of good degree flocked to Wood Bank,—formerly the home of an artist,—where Edward taught his boys in the big, dismantled studio, and Muriel consecrated a couple of fair-sized rooms to her girls. The coming of Austin Morland, who, though only in his twelfth year, had a certain talent for leadership, had waked up the boys’ schoolroom, and plans for the summer holidays had been more ambitious than usual.
Frances could not do anything striking for the girls’ schoolrooms at present, since they were shut, and their presiding genius was away from home. But Austin’s sister, finding herself welcomed in a fashion which showed how unstinted had been Austin’s recommendations, was determined to do her best to justify his loyalty. She was soon the happy potentate of an acquiescent kingdom, and honestly anxious to make good use of her unexpected influence. Besides being the leader in every frolic, she tried to interest herself in everybody’s hobbies and everybody’s fancies.
Most of her new friends belonged to one or other of the many juvenile organizations which now make a real effort—whose value may be appreciated by social economists of a later date—to concern themselves in the welfare of the poor and suffering. Frances had caught from her elder comrades at Haversfield a girlish enthusiasm for this kind of toil. She threw herself warmly into the diversions of Florry Fane’s set—who could understand poetry, dabble in oil and water colours, and write stories. She dressed dolls for Betty Turner’s hospital box, she collected butterflies and beetles with Guy Gordon, she studied rabbits with Frank Temple, she joined the Children’s Orchestra and was a great admirer of the First Violin.
But the best of Frances’s heart went into her promised alliance with Max Brenton. Max was the blithest boy in all Woodend, by far the busiest and the most popular. Even Austin Morland, bright of face and gay of manner as was the lad, could not, and would not, have stepped into the place filled by Max. Meet the Doctor’s son when and where you might, you were bound to feel happier for having done so.
Elveley was the largest house in Woodend proper; it possessed ample garden ground, and neat outbuildings in the rear. Its possessor had usually been the person of most importance in the village, and thus the coming of the new owner had been awaited with curiosity. Mrs. Morland had been at some pains to send in advance her credentials as to family and position. She was a woman who placed extravagant value on social esteem, and she had voluntarily stunted her intelligence and narrowed her views for fear of perilling her own prestige by shocking any antique prejudice in her neighbours. She had not much sympathy with the special affairs of childhood; but when she turned aside from her individual interests to see how matters went with her boy and girl, she generally found reason for complacency.
Now that she had settled in Woodend, it was in harmony with her wishes and instincts that Frances should be to the girls such a leader as Mrs. Morland had become to their elders, and that Austin’s careless good-humour should assure his popularity. If her children had been dull and commonplace, she would have felt herself an injured person. Because they were neither, she was ready to be indulgent and compliant. They had plenty of pocket-money, and were seldom refused a petition; and though they rarely spent with their mother more than an hour or so in the day, their food and clothing were carefully attended to by responsible people, and their education was the best within reach. Frances and Austin were not aware that they missed anything; and they nourished for their mother a love which, if it depended rather on tradition than on fact, was sufficiently real to make their home dear and fairly bright.
The big playroom in Mrs. Morland’s delightful old house soon became the headquarters of every juvenile institution. Cricket, football, and tennis clubs kept their archives in its table-drawers; its shelves harboured a choice lending-library, contributed to by every owner of a story-book; its corners saw the hatching of every plot, harmless or mischievous. Further, it was within its walls that Frances—intent at first only on aiding Max, but with wider ambition by and by—founded and maintained her prosperous club, the Woodend Society of Altruists.
“I hope the name is fine enough,” remarked Austin critically.
“You don’t think it sounds priggish?” inquired Frances in alarm. “It’s what the Haversfield girls called their club, and I thought we might just copy.”
“Of course, it’s a first-rate name,” declared Max kindly.