“Ay,” he returned, pressing the girl’s kind little hand. “I’m glad I’ve seen you, Missy. Come again.”
“Please!” added Jim from the background. “We’ll be proud to have you, Missy. Come again.”
CHAPTER V.
DOCTOR MAX.
The Society of the Altruists was very busy indeed. The Christmas entertainment to which allusion has been made was a project of Frances Morland’s, who, among her other qualifications for the public service, possessed the gift of diplomacy. She was sincerely anxious to help others, and to enlist her friends in the generous enterprise; but she knew that the boys and girls of Woodend were no different from their fellows, and therefore liable to sink gradually into a condition of lukewarmness about any scheme which did not make a constant appeal to their active interest. The lack of some fillip to stir up the young people’s energies had already brought about the destruction of numerous undertakings in Woodend which had made a gallant start, and Frances was determined to save her Society from such an untimely fate.
Everybody was pleased with the prospect of giving an entertainment in which everybody might play some part. The guests were to be the poor of Woodend, and the festivity was to take place two days before Christmas. Frances suggested this date as best suited to the guests, who would doubtless like to parade some, at least, of the Altruist presents at their own home-gatherings of Christmas-day. Christmas-eve was not a possible feast-day, because the Carlyons liked their pupils to join in the carol-singing after the evening service, and the service itself was one which the young people seldom cared to miss. Then there was so much to be done at home in the way of decorations and private plans.
Therefore, many dwellers in the cottages of Woodend were looking forward expectantly to the twenty-third of December. Their excitement, however, was as nothing in comparison with that of the Altruists. Frances had made skilful division of her forces. Some were to act in a fairy play, written for the occasion by Florry Fane, who intended one day to astonish the world of literature; some were painting scenery, preparing “properties”, or making dresses for use in the play; some were practising solos, duets, and part-songs for the concert which was to precede the play in the evening’s programme. Then there were those whose souls inclined not to literature, drama, or music: to them fell the task of arranging the commissariat department, and the means of distributing gifts so as to please everyone.
It was Saturday evening, in the second week of December. Up the straggling village road came, whistling cheerily, Max Brenton,—the “man of affairs”, as Florry had dubbed him. Max’s well-worn coat was buttoned closely, and his crimson comforter had been tied, with utter disregard for appearances, over his cap, so as to shield his ears. A bitter east wind blew about him, and as he went he swung his arms vigorously to aid his progress, and stamped his feet to resist the clinging snow.
“Hope Dad has got home,” thought the boy fervently. “Old Carrots isn’t too lively, and this is a regular mucky night. Ugh, what slush! Freezing hard, too, now. I said that sudden thaw wouldn’t hold. Well, anything’s better than slush—for us. I’m afraid the ninety-year-olds and the babies will suffer.”
The Doctor’s son trudged soberly on. He was fresh from the playing-fields, tired, cold, and hungry for the tea which ought to be waiting him. As he trudged, he hoped many things. That Janet had not forgotten to order Dad’s steak. That the dining-room lamp would not have gone out for the third time that week. That the fire would not have gone out to keep the lamp company. Janet was eccentric in her dealings with lamps and fires, and had a sort of general idea that Saturday was sacred to the service of the kitchen, and not to be wasted over trifling matters belonging to “the family’s” part of the dwelling. The Doctor and Max had been for a dozen years “the family” to whom Janet had consecrated her faithful labours. She had been already old when the Doctor had found her seated in dry-eyed despair beside the bed of her dead husband, and had forthwith bidden her to his home, whence the sole servant had departed to face the wedded life just over for Janet.
Max had always taken Janet for granted, and had ceased to wonder why she never mended the holes in his stockings all at once. Janet preferred doing repairs in instalments.