At home, the girl’s altered demeanour was not less apparent than at school. Her influence over Austin must have gone for ever, she told herself, or he could not have differed from her on a point which was surely a test of individuality; and having so made up her mind, she soon brought about the state of things which had been purely imaginary. It was true that Austin had begun to spend a good deal of his leisure at the smithy, but he would at any time have given his sister’s affairs the preference. Now, however, Frances no longer invited his willing aid. The chemicals and dishes in the dark-room, once so fascinating, were thick with dust, since Austin found photography “no fun” without Frances. Prints had duly been taken from the two negatives which had been the Christmas-day successes, and Florry’s group and Frances’s landscape had been admired by half Woodend. But Frances could not endure the sight of either; and when copies were begged, no coaxing or pleading from Austin would induce his sister to help him to take them.
The boy laid aside his camera and took up his fiddle. His patient teacher, a young Exham musician, was delighted with his sudden progress; and Mrs. Morland smiled complacently while she whispered to her friends:
“Yes, Austin has always been musical—so like his dear father. Mr. Morland had quite a reputation as an amateur violinist. The Amati that is now Austin’s was once his. It gives me so much pleasure to see my dear boy take up in earnest the study of his instrument.”
On reception days Mrs. Morland’s servants were sent to playroom and garden in search of the juvenile prodigy, but their efforts were vain. Austin’s performances were strictly private—private to himself and his brother Jim. For Jim’s sake he listened to his teacher’s instructions, and strove, in half-hours of self-sacrificial practice, to communicate those instructions to his own finger-tips. Then, later on, he could pass them on to Jim. And Jim sat willingly at Austin’s feet in the art and science of music, and found no evening dull on which he could pore over the exercise-books his brother had brought him, and repeat again and again on his own poor instrument some passage whose difficulty Austin had tried to help him to overcome.
For many weeks matters held to the same course, and the Easter holidays came round to complete the year of Mrs. Morland’s residence in Woodend. Jim had kept his promise, and had not sought to make public the secret of his birth; and Dr. Brenton and Max and Austin had proved equally faithful.
Max’s training, as much as his natural endowment, had given him a large heart and a most tolerant judgment. He was “all things to all men” in the best sense. With this true friend, Austin attempted no concealments, and felt that, without disloyalty, he might venture on a discussion of the one epoch-marking experience of his young life. He even tried to win from Max some opinion as to Frances’s share in Jim’s dismissal and banishment.
“For it wasn’t a scrap like her,” remarked Austin in a puzzled voice; “Frances has always been such a stickler about justice and that, you know. Goodness! she’s down like a shot on a chap who doesn’t play fair—”
“She used to be,” amended Max diffidently. The talk was of another fellow’s sister, and he trusted his tongue would remember its duty. “The other day, when Lal slanged Guy because Guy won that prize Lal wanted, I believe every girl except Frances slanged Lal in his turn for his sneakiness.”
“My! wasn’t there a jolly row!” said Austin, chuckling at the recollection. “Ten of ’em all together giving it hot to that skunk Lal!”
“Frances would have led the assault once on a time.” Max smiled, remembering not Lal’s rating only, but many occasions when Austin’s sister had exchanged her usual serenity for hot contempt of conduct base and ungenerous.