“Good-evening, Jim!” Frances’s right hand rested lightly on the half-opened gate which bounded the carriage-drive to Elveley. “I’m glad you’re here. I’ve wanted to tell you how very sorry I am for your trouble. It isn’t only I, either; all of us boys and girls are sorry. Your grandfather was always good to us; and we liked him, ever so much. Of course,” she went on gravely, “I know that we can’t feel as you do, because you miss him all day long. But you won’t forget, will you, when you are sad and lonely, that we are sorry too?”
“No, Missy,” said Jim in a low voice, “I won’t forget; and I thank you kindly for speaking so.”
“Then you will try to cheer up, won’t you, Jim? And we will all come to see your dear smithy; and you must come sometimes to our meetings and help us with the village-boys.”
A scrape of Austin’s foot on the gravel warned Frances of his strong objection; but at that moment his sister’s thoughts were echoing the quavering tones of an old man’s voice, begging her, when Jim should be left solitary, to be kind to the lonely lad.
“We hope you will come to help us,” persisted the girl.
“I’ll do anything as you may wish,” Jim replied. “I’ll be proud to serve you, Missy.” He lifted his head then; the gentleness of Frances’s accents moving him to look to her face in search of help for the better meeting of his fate. The lad was in sore need of some encouragement, for he knew that the errand which had brought him to Elveley this Christmas-day was one that might well startle, if it did not repel, his listener. And above all things Jim dreaded to see Frances’s pain or to hear her reproach. The position he now occupied was intolerable to the boy’s sensitive nature. But guessing instinctively that in telling his story the simplest words would be the best, and the briefest phrases the most acceptable, Jim began his explanations without any sort of pretence at ingenious circumlocution.
“I came to see you this afternoon, Missy, because of something you don’t know about—something Grandfather told me just before he died. I’m feared—I’m feared it isn’t what you’ll wish to hear. Grandfather told the doctor, too; but not till he’d promised to keep quiet. Grandfather wished me to tell you myself. He wished me to tell you on Christmas-day, because then, he said, folks thought kinder of everyone, let alone their own kindred. So I’ve been waiting all day, but somehow I couldn’t bear to come. I wanted to come, but I was feared, in case Grandfather was wrong when he said you would be kind. He bade me speak first to you.”
“Jim,” said Frances slowly, though her heart beat fast, “I don’t understand you in the very least.”
“Likely not, Missy. But it’s true what Grandfather told me, and I’ve brought the papers, as he wished, for Madam to see.”
“For my mother to see?” asked Frances wonderingly.