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Detailed Contents

1. Case Studies
2. Preface
3. Acknowledgments
4. 1. A Life Course Perspective
1. ■ Opening Questions
2. ■ Key Ideas
3. Case Study 1.1: David Sanchez’s Search for Connections
4. Case Study 1.2: Phoung Le, Serving Family and Community
5. Case Study 1.3: The Suarez Family After September 11, 2001
6. A Definition of the Life Course Perspective
7. Theoretical Roots of the Life Course Perspective
8. Basic Concepts of the Life Course Perspective
1. Cohorts
2. Transitions
3. Trajectories
4. Life Events
5. Turning Points
9. Major Themes of the Life Course Perspective
1. Interplay of Human Lives and Historical Time
2. Timing of Lives
1. Dimensions of Age
2. Standardization in the Timing of Lives
3. Linked or Interdependent Lives
1. Links Between Family Members
2. Links With the Wider World
4. Human Agency in Making Choices
5. Diversity in Life Course Trajectories
6. Developmental Risk and Protection
10. Strengths and Limitations of the Life Course Perspective
11. Integration With a Multidimensional, Multitheoretical Approach
12. ■ Implications for Social Work Practice
13. ■ Key Terms
14. ■ Active Learning
15. ■ Web Resources
5. 2. Conception, Pregnancy, and Childbirth
1. ■ Opening Questions
 2. ■ Key Ideas
3. Case Study 2.1: Jennifer Bradshaw’s Experience With Infertility
4. Case Study 2.2: The Thompsons’ Premature Birth
5. Case Study 2.3: Hazel Gereke’s and Cecelia Kin’s Experiences With the
Options
6. Sociocultural Organization of Childbearing
1. Family Diversity
2. Conception and Pregnancy in Context
3. Childbirth in Context
1. Childbirth Education
2. Place of Childbirth
3. Who Assists Childbirth
7. Reproductive Genetics
1. Genetic Mechanisms
2. Genetic Counseling
8. Control over Conception and Pregnancy
1. Contraception
2. Medical Abortion
3. Infertility Treatment
9. Fetal Development
1. First Trimester
1. Fertilization and the Embryonic Period
2. The Fetal Period
2. Second Trimester
3. Third Trimester
4. Labor and Delivery of the Neonate
10. Pregnancy and the Life Course
11. At-Risk Newborns
1. Prematurity and Low Birth Weight
2. Newborn Intensive Care
3. Major Congenital Anomalies
12. Special Parent Populations
1. Gay and Lesbian Parents
2. Substance-Abusing Pregnant Women
3. Pregnant Women With Eating Disorders
4. Pregnant Women With Disabilities
5. Incarcerated Pregnant Women
6. HIV-Infected Pregnant Women
13. Risk and Protective Factors in Conception, Pregnancy, and Childbirth
14. ■ Implications for Social Work Practice
 15. ■ Key Terms
16. ■ Active Learning
17. ■ Web Resources
6. 3. Infancy and Toddlerhood
1. ■ Opening Questions
2. ■ Key Ideas
3. Case Study 3.1: Holly’s Early Arrival
4. Case Study 3.2: Sarah’s Teen Dad
5. Case Study 3.3: Overprotecting Henry
6. Developmental Niche and Typical Infant and Toddler Development
7. Physical Development
1. Self-Regulation
2. Sensory Abilities
3. Reflexes
4. Motor Skills
5. The Growing Brain
8. Cognitive Development
1. Piaget’s Stages of Cognitive Development
2. Prelanguage Skills
9. Socioemotional Development
1. Erikson’s Theory of Psychosocial Development
2. Emotional Control
3. Temperament
4. Bowlby’s Theory of Attachment
5. Ainsworth’s Theory of Attachment
6. Attachment and Brain Development
10. The Role of Play
11. Developmental Disruptions
12. Child Care Arrangements in Infancy and Toddlerhood
1. Family Leave
2. Paid Child Care
13. Infants and Toddlers in the Multigenerational Family
1. The Breastfeeding versus Bottle Feeding Decision
2. Postpartum Depression
14. Risks to Healthy Infant and Toddler Development
1. Poverty
2. Inadequate Caregiving
3. Child Maltreatment
15. Protective Factors in Infancy and Toddlerhood
1. Maternal Education
 2. Social Support
3. Easy Temperament
4. National and State Policy
16. ■ Implications for Social Work Practice
17. ■ Key Terms
18. ■ Active Learning
19. ■ Web Resources
7. 4. Early Childhood
1. ■ Opening Questions
2. ■ Key Ideas
3. Case Study 4.1: Terri’s Terrible Temper
4. Case Study 4.2: Jack’s Name Change
5. Case Study 4.3: A New Role for Ron and Rosiland’s Grandmother
6. Typical Development in Early Childhood
1. Physical Development in Early Childhood
2. Cognitive and Language Development
1. Piaget’s Stages of Cognitive Development
2. Language Skills
3. Moral Development
1. Understanding Moral Development
2. Helping Young Children Develop Morally
4. Personality and Emotional Development
1. Erikson’s Theory of Psychosocial Development
2. Emotions
3. Aggression
4. Attachment
5. Social Development
1. Peer Relations
2. Self-Concept
3. Gender Identity and Sexual Interests
4. Racial and Ethnic Identity
6. The Role of Play
1. Play as an Opportunity to Explore Reality
2. Play’s Contribution to Cognitive Development
3. Play as Practice for Morality
4. Play as an Opportunity to Gain Control
5. Play as a Shared Experience
6. Play as the Route to Attachment to Fathers
7. Developmental Disruptions
7. Early Childhood Education
 8. Early Childhood in the Multigenerational Family
9. Risks to Healthy Development in Early Childhood
1. Poverty
2. Homelessness
3. Ineffective Discipline
4. Divorce
5. Violence
1. Community Violence
2. Domestic Violence
3. Child Maltreatment
10. Protective Factors in Early Childhood
11. ■ Implications for Social Work Practice
12. ■ Key Terms
13. ■ Active Learning
14. ■ Web Resources
8. 5. Middle Childhood
1. ■ Opening Questions
2. ■ Key Ideas
3. Case Study 5.1: Anthony Bryant’s Impending Assessment
4. Case Study 5.2: Brianna Shaw’s New Self-Image
5. Case Study 5.3: Manuel Vega’s Difficult Transition
6. Historical Perspective on Middle Childhood
7. Middle Childhood in the Multigenerational Family
8. Development in Middle Childhood
1. Physical Development
2. Cognitive Development
3. Cultural Identity Development
4. Emotional Development
5. Social Development
1. The Peer Group
2. Friendship and Intimacy
3. Team Play
4. Gender Identity and Gender Roles
5. Technology and Social Development
6. Spiritual Development
9. Middle Childhood and Formal Schooling
10. Special Challenges in Middle Childhood
1. Poverty
2. Family and Community Violence
3. Mental and Physical Challenges
 1. Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD)
2. Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD)
3. Emotional/Behavioral Disorder
4. Family Disruption
11. Risk Factors and Protective Factors in Middle Childhood
12. ■ Implications for Social Work Practice
13. ■ Key Terms
14. ■ Active Learning
15. ■ Web Resources
9. 6. Adolescence
1. ■ Opening Questions
2. ■ Key Ideas
3. Case Study 6.1: David’s Coming-Out Process
4. Case Study 6.2: Carl’s Struggle for Identity
5. Case Study 6.3: Monica’s Quest for Mastery
6. The Social Construction of Adolescence Across Time and Space
7. The Transition From Childhood to Adulthood
8. Biological Aspects of Adolescence
1. Puberty
2. The Adolescent Brain
3. Nutrition, Exercise, and Sleep
9. Psychological Aspects of Adolescence
1. Psychological Reactions to Biological Changes
2. Changes in Cognition
3. Identity Development
1. Theories of Self and Identity
2. Gender Identity
3. Cultural Identity
10. Social Aspects of Adolescence
1. Relationships With Family
2. Relationships With Peers
3. Romantic Relationships
4. Relationships With Organizations, Communities, and Institutions
1. School
2. The Broader Community
3. Work
4. Information and Communication Technologies (ICTs)
11. Adolescent Spirituality/Religiosity
12. Adolescent Sexuality
1. Sexual Decision Making
 2. Sexual Orientation
3. Pregnancy and Childbearing
4. Sexually Transmitted Infections
13. Potential Challenges to Adolescent Development
1. Substance Use and Abuse
2. Juvenile Delinquency
3. Bullying
4. School-to-Prison Pipeline
5. Community Violence
6. Dating Violence and Statutory Rape
7. Poverty and Low Educational Attainment
8. Obesity and Eating Disorders
9. Depression and Suicide
14. Risk Factors and Protective Factors in Adolescence
15. ■ Implications for Social Work Practice
16. ■ Key Terms
17. ■ Active Learning
18. ■ Web Resources
10. 7. Young Adulthood
1. ■ Opening Questions
2. ■ Key Ideas
3. Case Study 7.1: Dominique Castillo’s Food Insecurity
4. Case Study 7.2: Sheila Henderson’s Long-Awaited Family Reunification
5. Case Study 7.3: Jonathan and Kai as Older Parents of Twins
6. A Definition of Young Adulthood
7. Theoretical Approaches to Young Adulthood
1. Erikson’s Psychosocial Theory
2. Levinson’s Theory of Life Structure
3. Arnett’s “Emerging” Adulthood
1. Cultural Variations
2. Multigenerational Concerns
8. Physical Functioning in Young Adulthood
9. The Psychological Self
1. Cognitive Development
2. Spiritual Development
3. Identity Development
10. Social Development and Social Functioning
1. Relationship Development in Young Adulthood
1. Romantic Relationships
2. Parenthood
 3. Mentoring and Volunteering
2. Work and the Labor Market
1. Immigration and Work
2. Role Changes and Work
3. Race, Ethnicity, and Work
11. Risk Factors and Protective Factors in Young Adulthood
12. ■ Implications for Social Work Practice
13. ■ Key Terms
14. ■ Active Learning
15. ■ Web Resources
11. 8. Middle Adulthood
1. ■ Opening Questions
2. ■ Key Ideas
3. Case Study 8.1: Viktor Spiro, Finding Stability at 44
4. Case Study 8.2: Lisa Balinski, Trying to Balance It All at 50
5. Case Study 8.3: Michael Bowling, Swallowing His Pride at 57
6. The Changing Social Construction of Middle Adulthood
1. Changing Age Demographics
2. A Definition of Middle Adulthood
3. Culture and the Construction of Middle Adulthood
7. Theories of Middle Adulthood
1. Erikson’s Theory of Generativity
2. Jung’s and Levinson’s Theories of Finding Balance
3. Life Span Theory and the Gain-Loss Balance
8. Biological Changes and Physical and Mental Health in Middle Adulthood
1. Changes in Physical Appearance
2. Changes in Mobility
3. Changes in the Reproductive System and Sexuality
4. Changes in Health Status
9. Intellectual Changes in Middle Adulthood
10. Personality Changes in Middle Adulthood
1. Trait Approach
2. Human Agency Approach
3. Life Narrative Approach
11. Spiritual Development in Middle Adulthood
12. Relationships in Middle Adulthood
1. Middle Adulthood in the Context of the Multigenerational Family
2. Relationships With Spouse or Partner
3. Relationships With Children
4. Relationships With Parents
 5. Other Family Relationships
6. Relationships With Friends
13. Work in Middle Adulthood
14. Risk Factors and Protective Factors in Middle Adulthood
15. ■ Implications for Social Work Practice
16. ■ Key Terms
17. ■ Active Learning
18. ■ Web Resources
12. 9. Late Adulthood
1. ■ Opening Questions
2. ■ Key Ideas
3. Case Study 9.1: The Smiths in Early Retirement
4. Case Study 9.2: Ms. Ruby Johnson, Caretaker for Three Generations
5. Case Study 9.3: Joseph and Elizabeth Menzel, a German Couple
6. Demographics of the Older Population
7. Cultural Construction of Late Adulthood
8. Psychosocial Theoretical Perspectives on Social Gerontology
9. Biological Changes in Late Adulthood
1. Health and Longevity
2. Age-Related Changes in Physiology
3. The Aging Brain and Neurodegenerative Diseases
1. Dementia
2. Alzheimer ’s Disease
3. Parkinson’s Disease
10. Psychological Changes in Late Adulthood
1. Personality Changes
2. Intellectual Changes, Learning, and Memory
3. Mental Health and Mental Disorders
11. Social Role Transitions and Life Events of Late Adulthood
1. Families in Later Life
2. Grandparenthood
3. Work and Retirement
4. Caregiving and Care Receiving
5. Widowhood
6. Institutionalization
12. The Search for Personal Meaning
13. Resources for Meeting the Needs of Elderly Persons
1. Informal Resources
2. Formal Resources
14. Risk Factors and Protective Factors in Late Adulthood
 15. ■ Implications for Social Work Practice
16. ■ Key Terms
17. ■ Active Learning
18. ■ Web Resources
13. 10. Very Late Adulthood
1. ■ Opening Questions
2. ■ Key Ideas
3. Case Study 10.1: Margaret Davis Stays at Home
4. Case Study 10.2: Pete Mullin Loses His Sister ’s Support
5. Case Study 10.3: Marie Cipriani Is Losing Her Life Partner
6. Very Late Adulthood: Charting New Territory
7. Very Late Adulthood in Historical and Cultural Perspective
8. What We Can Learn From Centenarians
9. Functional Capacity in Very Late Adulthood
10. Relationships in Very Late Adulthood
1. Relationships With Family and Friends
2. Intimacy and Sexuality in Very Late Adulthood
3. Relationships With Organizations and Community
4. The Use of Technology
11. The Housing Continuum
12. Spirituality in Very Late Adulthood
13. The Dying Process
1. Advance Directives
2. Care of People Who Are Dying
3. End-of-Life Signs and Symptoms
14. Loss, Grief, and Bereavement
1. Theories and Models of Loss
2. Culture and Bereavement
15. The Life Course Completed
16. ■ Implications for Social Work Practice
17. ■ Key Terms
18. ■ Active Learning
19. ■ Web Resources
14. References
15. Glossary
16. Index
17. About the Author
18. About the Contributors
Dimensions of Human Behavior
Fifth Edition
Dimensions of Human Behavior
The Changing Life Course

Fifth Edition

Elizabeth D. Hutchison
Virginia Commonwealth University, Emerita
and Contributors
FOR INFORMATION:

SAGE Publications, Inc.

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Thousand Oaks, California 91320

E-mail: [email protected]

SAGE Publications Ltd.

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Copyright © 2015 by SAGE Publications, Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form
or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or
by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing
from the publisher.

Printed in the United States of America

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Dimensions of human behavior. The changing life course/[authored by] Elizabeth

D. Hutchison, Virginia Commonwealth University, and contributors. — Fifth
edition.

pages cm

Includes bibliographical references and index.

ISBN 978-1-4833-0390-1 (pbk. : alk. paper)

1. Social psychology. 2. Human behavior. 3. Life cycle, Human. 4. Social service. I.

Hutchison, Elizabeth D. II. Title: Changing life course.

HM1033.D553 2015

302—dc23 2014019011

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

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residents who heard the story of the Morland downfall, as it affected
the mistress of Elveley, with hardly more than a conventional
murmur of regret. But when her children were under discussion the
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grieved at the tragic calamity which must so greatly change their
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Still, there were some neighbours able and willing to show Mrs.
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extent of the disaster, rejected their overtures with angry scorn.
Naturally, her well-meaning friends retired precipitately, determining
that she should be left to take her own course.
What that course should be Mrs. Morland did not even attempt to
decide. The creditors who had insisted on the sale of Elveley wished
to show the innocent debtor some consideration, and informed her
that she might continue to occupy the house for three weeks. The
Rector, who was not to be driven away by any rebuffs, listened
patiently to the outpourings of bitter invective against her fraudulent
trustee, which seemed the only relief Mrs. Morland could discover.
The kindly, gentle old man was too infirm to fight an injured
woman’s battles; but Edward Carlyon persuaded Mrs. Morland to put
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best terms possible with her creditors.
The three weeks of grace had almost slipped by, and still no
provision had been made for the future of the little family. Frances
and Austin seldom left their mother, though in her presence they
were acutely miserable. They were young and vigorous, and, after
they had recovered from the shock of misfortune, they were eager
to be up and doing. Both girl and boy implored their mother to
speak—to tell them what her plans might be, so that they might help
forward any arrangements she had made. But Mrs. Morland declared
herself incapable of action, and was not moved even by the pale and
anxious faces of the harassed pair who were ready to take the field
in her behalf.
It was an awakening period for the two young Morlands. Hitherto
they had felt a childlike security in the capacity of a mother’s
protecting love and care. The world’s struggles and trials had
seemed far removed from the sheltered comfort of their home. Now,
the arm that had encircled and shielded them had been suddenly
removed, and the onset of trouble found them defenseless.
“If only we knew what was going to become of us,” sighed Frances
in Miss Carlyon’s ear. “It is so dreadful to feel day after day passing
and not to have the least idea what Mamma will do. Sometimes
Austin and I think she really does not understand that we must leave
Elveley immediately; but if we try to talk about it she will not listen.”
“Dear child, your mother has received a very heavy blow. Who can
wonder if it has prostrated her?”
Miss Carlyon’s tone was extremely pitiful, though she could hardly
think without impatience of the crushed, broken woman who, even
for the sake of her children, would not rouse herself out of her state
of despondency. The girl and boy whose future had promised to be
so bright were surely the chief sufferers; but Mrs. Morland’s pride
saw as yet only her personal defeat—her loss of position, her coming
poverty.
“I know how very hard it is for Mamma,” said Frances; “Austin and I
would scarcely mind at all if only Mamma need not lose all her
things. I do want to help her, but she says I am just a girl, and of no
use. And Austin is not grown-up yet. Oh, Miss Carlyon, is there no
work I can do? I think I could take care of children, and I would do
anything.”
“Dear Frances, you are so young to leave home.”
“Should I have to leave home? I don’t think I could bear to go quite
away among strangers. What would Austin do?”
“What, indeed? And how could your mother part from her only
daughter? Your place is at home, darling.”
“I don’t know,” said Frances in a shaky voice. “I don’t seem much
good to Mamma; and perhaps, after all, Austin would not mind now.
He does not want me as he used to.”
“How is that?” asked Miss Carlyon gently, while she stroked the girl’s
bent head.
“It is because I am different,” said Frances dejectedly. “I have been
mean and horrid, and Austin knows.”
Muriel Carlyon remained silent, half-expecting that her young
favourite would open her heart, and give her confidence to her
friend. But Frances’s tongue was tied by her promise to her mother;
though, in this time of trial, when sight seemed clearer and duty
plainer, she did long to cast away the burden of deceit and tell the
truth before all the world.
“Do you think anyone would take me as a nursery governess, Miss
Carlyon?” asked the girl presently.
“No, dear, I do not. People do not engage little maids of fourteen for
posts of responsibility.”
“I am nearly fifteen. Of course I know that is not old, but I could put
up my hair.”
Muriel replied with a loving kiss.
“I might try a grey wig,” suggested Frances, throwing her arms
round her friend; “and spectacles, you know,—like a girl in a story-
book.”
“Even then, I am afraid, you would be nothing but a dear young
lass, by no means formidable enough to pose as a governess.”
“You are formidable,” said Frances, hugging Miss Carlyon close. “And
your hair is not grey, but pretty brown curls; and you look, oh! ever
so young and jolly! It cheers me up just to see you.”
“Have that cheer as often as you will, darling; and believe it doesn’t
make troubles lighter to meet them with a gloomy face.”
“Ah! that’s what Florry says.”
“Florry is a first-rate philosopher—an unconscious preacher, too, of
the gospel of plain living and high thinking.”
“I’ll tell you how she argues—you know she loves to argue. This is
exactly what she said:—‘If you don’t have such a big house, you
needn’t mind, for you can’t be in more than one room at a time. And
if you don’t have grand dinners, you needn’t mind, for boys and girls
come in only for dessert, and grown-ups just have indigestion. And if
you’ve only one best frock and one worst one, you needn’t mind, for
it will save the bother of thinking what you’ll put on.’ It sounds quite
sensible, really. I don’t think I do mind being poor, for myself. Just
for Mamma and Austin.”
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At all events, dear, you can go on trying to show them the bright
side of things.”
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myself first.”
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“Could you?”
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friends have been most eager to seek you out—which have been
careful to hold aloof?”
Muriel watched the changing expression of the girl’s intelligent face.
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mean. Thank you, Miss Carlyon. Of course you knew, you could not
help seeing, how the girls I used to like the best have seemed, ever
since Christmas, to be far jollier without me.”
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them.”
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was dull and stupid. So I tried to make friends with the others, but it
never seemed the same. And now all my old chums have come back
to me, and the new ones have stayed away. Oh, yes, Miss Carlyon,
there is a bright side. Only, I didn’t know where to look for it.”

It was the evening of the third day before the one on which Elveley,
and the major portion of its contents, were to be put up to auction.
Mrs. Morland sat alone in her private sitting-room; a small and
beautifully-furnished apartment where, during the last weeks, she
had hidden herself from all eyes which she considered malicious or
inquisitive. She knew she was not a popular woman; but she had
preferred to mere popularity the more exclusive gratification which
could be obtained by a determined and successful insistence on
superiority. So long as she could be a leader, Mrs. Morland cared not
whether her train followed her willingly or not. Thus, among her
acquaintances, she had not tried to make a single friend.
The disaster which would have been heavy to most women was
appalling to her. So far, she had refused to face facts, and had met
her children’s timid protests either with indifference or anger. But
that very afternoon, the boy and girl—coming hand in hand, for
mutual encouragement—had made a fresh attempt to persuade her
to listen to them; and though she had fairly driven them away by
her harsh and bitter replies, she had not been able to forget the
wretchedness in their young faces. It was true, of course, what they
had said: in three days they would have no roof to cover their
heads.
Austin, on leaving his mother, rushed to the stable, had his pony
saddled, and galloped off to Rowdon. He had promised that his
brother should know that day how matters stood; and it seemed to
Austin that matters were at desperation-point.
Mrs. Morland remained alone. Round her were the evidences of her
lost prosperity, and her eyes roved from one to another of her
possessions, while her brain worked busily, and her long, slender
fingers played with the pretty toys on a delicately-carved and inlaid
table by her side. The children’s appeal had at last roused her, and
consternation was taking the place of lethargy. Frances had implored
her to speak: but after all, what could she say? What refuge was
open to her, that pride could let her accept? More than one of her
neighbours—the Rector first of them—had courteously offered her
and her children a temporary home; but the idea of lingering on in
Woodend, an object of careless pity to those whom she had
compelled to a certain admiration, was hateful, even insupportable,
to the suffering woman.
Her thoughts were still dwelling on what seemed to her an indignity
impossible of endurance, when a servant brought a visitor to her
door, and left him, at his own request, to enter unannounced.
“Who’s that?” demanded Mrs. Morland sharply, as the figure of
young Jim Morland began to take shape in the distant shadows of
the room.
Jim stepped forward, and with a word of greeting quietly proclaimed
himself. He had been warned by Austin of the mood in which he was
likely to find his stepmother; and the latent chivalry of his nature
was now prepared to resist all inclinations towards impatience or
resentment. In Jim’s simple creed a woman’s misfortune rendered
her sacred.
“Please forgive me for venturing, Madam,” began the lad
respectfully; “I’m feared you’ll not be over-pleased as I should come
just now. I’m here because Austin told me of your trouble, and I
wanted to see what I could do.”
“What you could do!” exclaimed Mrs. Morland, remembering bitterly
enough that her stepson was of age now; that, had she treated him
justly, and made over to him the share of his father’s property which
was morally his right when he reached his majority, he would have
been able, and probably willing, to help her to good purpose. “What
can you do, pray? Take my son, and teach him the trade of a
blacksmith?”
“He has pluck enough,” replied Jim gently. “And he would think it no
shame to do aught which would help you or his sister. But of course
that’s for me to do. I am the eldest: and—though I feel sore-like to
vex you, Madam,—I’ve come now to claim my rights.”
“Your rights?” queried Mrs. Morland, thinking of her husband’s lost
thousands.
“Yes. I’ve waited—knowing as you and Missy thought shame of me—
to see if you had better plans. But now I’ve come, because my
brother and sister are in need of someone to care for them.” Jim
moved nearer, and laid his strong brown hand on the dainty inlaid
table: Mrs. Morland almost shivered to see it there. “I claim the right
to care for them. Madam, this time you can’t say me nay—it is my
right.”
“My good boy,” said Mrs. Morland petulantly, “don’t try to be
bombastic if you want me to hear you out. Please say what you have
come to say, as quickly as you can.”
“I’d best be quick,” said Jim, unmoved; “for I doubt not you are tired
and worried: and if I could”—the lad’s eyes rested softly on his
stepmother’s hard-drawn features—“I’d like to bring you some ease.
You know as I’ve a little house, Madam. ’Tis a small place, but tidy-
like; and there’s a big orchard behind. And since my brother and
sister must soon leave their home, I’d have them come to mine and
be king and queen of it. I’d be proud to see them there.”
“No doubt,” said Mrs. Morland grimly; “but the joys of cottage life
are not quite in their line.”
“Madam,” said Jim earnestly, “you must listen to me now. The others
are too young to do aught, and it’s not for them to feel the world’s
roughness. You do not like as folks should know their brother’s just a
blacksmith and the home he has to offer them just a poor cottage. I
do not say as that’s not reason in a way, and no fault of yours. But if,
when this place is sold, you will not let me take them to Rowdon,
where are they to go?”
Mrs. Morland sat still awhile, without replying, while her fingers
tapped nervously the polished surface of the little table. Her
demeanour had changed somewhat during Jim’s brief speech, for
she had been obliged to recognize that his words were the
expression of his heart’s true feeling, and that she had now no hard
or revengeful nature to deal with. However unworthy might be her
estimate of the causes which prompted Jim’s present attitude, she
began to see in the lad possibilities that would render more tolerable
the necessity for owning him.
“Where are they to go?” asked Jim again, with increased gentleness.
“They will go with me,” said Mrs. Morland bitterly, “to the
workhouse, I suppose!”
“They will go with you, of course,” said Jim, leaning forward, and
speaking in a tone of the most persuasive softness his peasant
tongue could command. “What would they do without you? But I’ve
a home for you all at Rowdon—and—indeed, I’ll make it as trim as I
can.”
He glanced at the beautiful and costly things about him, and sighed
inwardly. His common-sense taught him that a woman who had
been bred amid such surroundings could hardly be contented at
Rowdon Smithy. When Jim Morland pressed his invitation on his
stepmother, he guessed that he was passing sentence on all his
future peace of mind. With his brother and sister alone, he might
have hoped, some day, to be happy: they were very young, and
youth readily accepts its circumstances. Austin, at least, would
quickly have been at home. But Frances!—Jim wondered if he could
bear the daily sight of his sister’s shrinking repugnance; and how
might he ever hope to overcome it while Frances remained under
the influence of this suspicious, ungracious nature?
“I’ll do my best,” continued the lad gravely; “and mayhap Rowdon
will serve for a home till I can earn more and provide a better.
Come, then, Madam, if it please you; and the children will make it
home-like.”
The impulse to believe the best of Jim, to give him the credit of a
magnanimous proposal, was stronger with Mrs. Morland at that
moment than she could have imagined. Some words of
acknowledgment were rising to her lips when her eyes lighted on her
stepson’s rough hand, so near her own delicate fingers, and in a
rapid glance she noted his rustic dress, while her pride rose
passionately at the thought of recognizing him as a kinsman. Her
better instincts were choked at once by a sensation of overwhelming
dislike and scorn. Mrs. Morland knew that she was ungenerous; but
she easily persuaded herself that, without loss of self-respect, she
could deal to Jim a certain measure of fairness in compensation for
lack of generosity. He would be satisfied, no doubt, if, in return for
the refuge he offered, she gave him the name but not the place of a
son.
“If I go to Rowdon,” she said deliberately, “you will, of course,
expect me to acknowledge your identity as my husband’s child?”
Jim flushed deeply: his stepmother’s words contained a hint of
motive on his part which he had a right to resent.
“I make no bargains, Madam!” said the young workman sternly.
“Come to Rowdon, and call me what you please.”
“You have claimed your ‘rights’ as a brother,” said Mrs. Morland,
smiling slightly; “and besides, my friends are, as you know, not so
dull as to believe I should go by choice to live at Rowdon Smithy, or
that you offered me a home there out of pure benevolence. Perhaps,
James,” she continued more seriously, “we shall understand each
other better if we do strike a bargain. We can put the matter on a
business footing between ourselves, and leave the rest of the world
to supply the sentiment. Well, then, I accept your offer of a
temporary home: in return, I agree to place in the Rector’s hands a
written acknowledgment of your right to bear your father’s name.”
“Madam,” said Jim coldly, his patience strained to the uttermost,
“you know right well as I’ve the means of proving who I am, if so be
as I wanted to do it, without a word from you. ’Twas to save you
and Missy what you held to be shame that I’ve kept so long a name
as was never really my own. There’ll be no bargaining on my side.
Call me East or Morland as it pleases you; I’ll count your wish as it
might be my father’s, and be your son or not as you choose. I’ll not
presume on your choice either way,” added Jim, borrowing for once
a little of his companion’s bitterness; “I’m not likely to forget as
you’d never give me a mother’s love.... I’d not expect it, neither,” he
went on, recovering his softer speech, “no more than I look for
Missy to remember as it’s not my fault I’m just a rough fellow. The
little lad ... the little lad”—Jim’s brave voice trembled—“he’s
different: he sees through things somehow.... Madam,” finished Jim,
looking straight at his stepmother, “I think the world of the little lad!”
“Boys are so ready to make friends,” said Mrs. Morland, moved in
spite of her prejudices, and striving to shake off an uncomfortable
sense of defeat. “Well, James, I am not so insensible of your good
intentions as you fancy. I never was quick to give affection, so you
need not take it amiss if I am not demonstrative. I dare say we shall
manage to put up with one another. Whether as part of a bargain or
not, I shall certainly desire that you be known for the future by your
proper name. And perhaps,” added the speaker, as the better side of
her nature asserted itself, “you may not despise a different
undertaking on my part. It is unlikely that you and I shall draw
together—there is no tie of blood to help us, and I frankly confess to
thinking the time too late. But I give you my promise to do nothing
to hinder you from winning the children’s liking, if it has value in
your eyes.”
Jim silently bent his head.
“They are very miserable,” continued Mrs. Morland, “and you are
about to give them some sort of comfort. Your chance with them
ought to be a good one.”
“I’d rather,” said Jim steadily, “as they did not think of things that
way. They’re just children, and shouldn’t know what trouble means,
when there’s grown folk to save them. Then, will you please tell
them as we’ve arranged?”
“Why not do that yourself?” Mrs. Morland rose, and her spirits
answering to a relief of mind she could not all at once realize, she
moved with her old grace and dignity towards the door. “Come with
me, James. You shall be introduced as the future head of the house
to your brother and sister. I shall leave you to give the necessary
orders about our movements. La reine est morte—that is, she’s
going to retire into private life!”
Mrs. Morland led the way to the children’s sitting-room; but only
Austin was there. He had lingered, nervously anxious about the
result of Jim’s visit to Elveley; but Frances had already gone for
comfort and counsel to her friend Miss Carlyon. To Austin his mother
formally announced her decision as to the future.
“Your brother means to be good to you,” she said, with an attempt
at cheerfulness; “you must try to thank him better than I have
done.”
 CHAPTER XI.
THE HEAD OF THE HOUSE.

It fell to the lot of Austin to tell his sister of Jim’s plan for their
settlement at Rowdon Smithy. Jim had resolutely declined to wait at
Elveley long enough to be the bearer of his own news. He was beset
with misgivings as to the results of the course to which he had
persuaded his stepmother to agree; and yet he knew that by no
other means could he possibly provide, even in the humblest way,
for his kinsfolk.
He had been reared by a masterful, self-contained man, who had
exacted unmurmuring obedience, and had seldom encouraged
individual thought and action. Thus Jim Morland, at twenty-one, was
hardly more than a boy in essential matters; and the responsibility of
“head of the house”, suddenly thrust on him, was enough to press
heavily on his immature character. He learned, as time passed, to
draw on the fundamental independence of his nature; but at first he
found himself capable only of doing what lay to his hand—of
planning as best he might for the present comfort of his little family,
while he trusted that his path might some day grow less dim.
His interview with Mrs. Morland had been really a trial to the
sensitive, country-bred lad; and he could not find courage to witness
his sister’s reception of the tidings he supposed would come to her
as a fresh calamity. Jim suffered here for his pardonable moral
cowardice; for even Austin, who knew how Frances had drooped
under the burden of suspense and uncertainty, was surprised at the
relief she showed when he had explained what lay before her.
Frances rose to the occasion like the plucky lass she always had tried
to be. That very evening she began to work at the necessary
packing; and her mother, hearing the girl’s cheerful voice when she
came for instructions, felt an unreasonable impatience because what
she would herself so greatly miss seemed to have small value in her
children’s eyes.
Frances was not in the least insensible to the worth of what she was
leaving behind, but out of the depths of her late despondency it was
good to rise to a level whence she might look bravely and gratefully
on the possibilities of the future. In the first place, she knew that the
question of acknowledging her brother was at last settled beyond
dispute, and that the injustice done to him was to be removed,
however tardily. She had done nothing to bring this about, and she
was quick to see that atonement on her own part must be of
another sort—if, indeed, there were any compensation Jim would
care to accept. She could at least take heed that she did not now
mistake her brother’s motives, or under-estimate the sacrifice he
was ready to make. He had shown himself capable of chivalrous
forgiveness, and the higher part of her nature was eager to respond.
Frances’s admiration and her longing to make amends were freely
confessed to Muriel Carlyon, who sympathized with both, and had
good counsel to give.
“Don’t overwhelm the boy with formal apologies and embarrassing
praises, dear child. You would only make him uncomfortable. Try to
let him see that you like and trust him, and want to help him all you
can. It’s no light duty he has undertaken. You, more than anybody,
can make it a pleasant one.”
When Frances came to attempt the putting in practice of her friend’s
advice, she found an obstacle in the barrier of shyness and
constraint which the unlucky past had raised between her and her
elder brother. Jim was obviously uneasy in her presence—dreading,
poor fellow, a criticism which he had every reason to think would be
to his disadvantage. He came to Elveley, during the three days of
waiting, as little as he could; though, as Mrs. Morland seemed
determined to fulfil literally her expressed intention of “retiring into
private life”, he was obliged to act for her at every point, to give all
necessary orders about the removal, and to interview, as her
appointed representative, all persons who had business with her. Jim
did his utmost; but at Elveley he grew each moment more weary
and dispirited, as he recognized more and more clearly the
difference between the surroundings to which his stepmother and
her children had been accustomed and those into which he had
offered to take them. He kept his forebodings secret, but they
worried him none the less.
The long-continued trouble had at last brought Frances one comfort
which made amends for everything. It had given Austin—the old
Austin—back to her, and had shown the lad at his best. His manly
instincts had come into evidence, and he had hovered patiently
about his mother and sister, assuring them that he would soon be
grown-up, and able to work for them. Then they would all be happy
again. Meanwhile—as growing-up is a slow process—he was content
to leave to Jim the ordering of affairs. He knew that he meant from
the beginning to do his share, but he wisely refrained from informing
his mother that his accomplishment of horse-shoeing was at length
to “come in handy”.
Frances, too, had laid her plans, and meant to be a busy little
housewife. She had confided to Muriel Carlyon all the doubts and
difficulties which had made her hold aloof from her favourite
comrades, even to the extent of deserting her cherished Society;
and now, feeling that at last she possessed no worrying secrets and
was fairly on the road to recover her self-respect, Frances rejoiced in
the possession of a true friend to whom she might turn for the
encouragement she could not find at home. On the day before the
departure from Elveley, she paid a “farewell” visit (only Muriel
scouted the word “farewell”) to Woodbank, and entertained herself
and her companion with a discussion of her coming diversions.
“I am going to be ever so useful,” she announced blithely. “It wasn’t
for nothing, after all, that we girls started our Club. We’ve learned to
cook and to iron, and I’ve not forgotten your lessons in cutting-out. I
can make my own frocks and things, and the boys’ shirts.—I call
Austin and Jim ‘the boys’,” she went on with a little flush, “so that I
may get used to thinking of them together.”
“You know where to come for help, darling.”
“Yes, thank you. Oh, I’m so glad we’re going to Rowdon, not to
some quite strange place, far away from you and the girls! Miss
Carlyon, we had a little bit of good news this morning. Mamma’s
lawyer wrote to tell her that the people who have made her sell
Elveley are going to let her keep some of her favourite books and
pictures and furniture—anything she likes up to a certain value—and
some of her glass and silver. And Austin and I may have all our very
own things: so that Austin is going to take his cameras, and Jim has
promised him a dark-room. That will be so nice for him, won’t it? He
has a fine stock of plates and chemicals, and we must make them
last as long as we can. They’ll keep a good while. Most of Mamma’s
things were chosen and packed at once, and have gone away to-
day. Austin went with them, to help Jim.”
“You would have known, far better than your brothers, how to
arrange the rooms as your mother would like best.”
“I shall have some time to-morrow,” said Frances, colouring.
“Mamma will not leave Elveley till the last thing, but I can go to
Rowdon early in the day.”
“And you will go by yourself?”
“No—Florry is coming with me.” Frances admitted rather awkwardly
this evidence of the shy feeling which made her avoid the sole
company of Jim. “We are going to unpack and put away all the
clothing, and finish Mamma’s sitting-room ready for her. Jim has
been kind about the sitting-room. He has made Mamma understand
that it is to be quite her own; he has moved out of it the old things
which used to be there, and has put them into the room opposite,
where he keeps all sorts of tools and some of the materials for his
work. I remember very well when we went to Rowdon Cottage—
that’s what they call the little house beside the smithy—Jim’s
grandfather inviting us to look into ‘Jim’s den’. It was neat and nice,
only it had no proper furniture except tables and chairs. There were
loads of shelves in it. I do love shelves!”
Muriel Carlyon laughed with pleasure to see the girl’s cheeks grow
pink as she pictured to herself a real workshop, with entrancing rows
of tools, a carpenter’s bench, apparatus for various kindred
handicrafts, and a floor littered with fresh-smelling shavings and
sawdust.
“It was a jolly ‘den’!” continued Frances; “and if—if I do get friends
with Jim, I know I shall beg admittance sometimes to his treasure-
chamber. I shouldn’t wonder if Austin had a corner of it all to
himself. Jim is very fond of Austin. I’m certain he is, though I’ve
hardly seen them together. You could tell by the way they look at
one another.”
“Well, dear, you must have a corner of your mother’s sitting-room.”
Frances shook her head. “Mamma would be miserable if there were
any litter about her, she likes everything spick and span. And, you
know, Austin and I do want her to be as happy as she can. It is so
very, very dreadful for her—” Frances paused awkwardly “I mean, it
is dreadful to give up the nice things she has been used to for such
a long time.”
“It is, darling; indeed it is.”
“So I thought if only she could have her own rooms filled with her
own things she might not miss what she has to leave—at least, not
so much. And when Jim told her she must count the sitting-room
quite for herself, it did seem possible to make that pretty. Then the
room above it is to be hers too. It is a pity, but I must take a corner
of that. I am afraid Mamma will dislike sharing her bedroom,
especially as her furniture will fill it up so; but we can’t help it. There
are only four rooms upstairs, and the two back ones are tiny places,
not big enough for anyone to sleep in. One will be for our boxes,
and the other is full of lumber already. The second bedroom is for
the boys. Austin and I are to have our own little beds, so they won’t
take up much room.”
Muriel listened to all these confidences and to many more before she
allowed Frances to leave her. She knew that the girl was in real need
of a woman’s sympathy and encouragement, and she hoped by
judicious counsel to make the entry on a new and strange life a little
easier for her favourite. Miss Carlyon was quite as fond of planning
and contriving as were any of her young folk; she meant to do her
full share in helping forward Frances’s ambitions, and to see that
none of her girls had more of her personal help and affection than
the lass who was so ready and eager to conquer fate.

The lights in Rowdon Cottage burned throughout that last night of

Jim Morland’s solitary life. The hours of dusk and darkness and
dawning were few and short to the busy lad, who worked steadily
and with intention during every moment they gave him. Jim’s eyes
were already fairly-well opened to the nature of the burden he had
taken on his young shoulders. He had accepted in a spirit Mrs.
Morland had not dreamed of, her injunction that he should consider
himself the head of the little family.
He knew that he must be, first of all, the bread-winner. Jim’s
calculations as to ways and means were already completed, and he
had reckoned up the average of his earnings, added the result to the
sum which came to him from the provision made by his grandfather,
and decided that he might count on a weekly income of thirty-five
shillings.
Jim was not ignorant enough to suppose that this amount could
allow for any save the simplest methods of housekeeping, even
when supplemented by garden produce and home-reared poultry.
The old woman who did his cooking and housework expected only a
small wage, but this, and her food, made a serious item of
expenditure; and poor Jim wondered anxiously whether her
blundering ways would be tolerated by his fastidious stepmother. Jim
was not prone to hard judgments, but he was not a fool; and he had
seen that Mrs. Morland could be both unjust and unreasonable. He
knew, only too surely, how Frances had shrunk from contact with
himself; and argued that she would be predisposed to despise his
cottage home.
The lad grew hot and cold by turns as he anticipated his inability to
satisfy their expectations; and at last came to the wise decision that
he would, at the outset, make confession of his modest means, and
avoid the worse pain of raising hopes he could not fulfil.
“For I must not run into debt,” pondered Jim. “I promised
grandfather I never would do that.”
Even without the remembered promise to admonish him, Jim was
not cast in the mould of those people who can look their just
creditors unblushingly in the face.
When morning brought his elderly housekeeper, the lad nerved
himself for an ordeal. This was no less a matter than an important
parley with old Elizabeth Macbean. Elizabeth was a Scotswoman,
and an excellent domestic according to her lights; but her gaunt,
angular person and strong-featured countenance were not
prepossessing, and Jim was nervously anxious lest she should give
offence by her independent speech and manners. To old East and
his grandson her civility had never fallen short; she had looked on
them as her superiors simply because they employed her, and she
had even shown a kind of motherly interest in her younger master.
But Jim recollected that Elizabeth had heard with compressed lips
and scowling brow the facts he had found it necessary to tell her
about the changed affairs of Rowdon Cottage; so he was not without
qualms as he prepared to add to his news at this latest possible
moment. His gentle nature made him shrink from inflicting pain, and
he feared he was about to hurt well-meaning old Elizabeth.
Fortunately, Jim had no mixed notions on the score of duty; and it
seemed to him now that his duty was plain.
He left Elizabeth to go about her morning work as usual, and was
careful to do justice to the simple breakfast prepared for him. Home-
baked scones and new-laid eggs were excellent fare in Jim’s opinion;
and he rose from the table refreshed and strengthened in spite of
his long night of toil.
“I don’t think as anything could be better than your scones,
Elizabeth,” said Jim, from a discreet post at the kitchen door. “You’ll
let me have some every day when the children come, won’t you? I’m
sure they’ll like your scones, Elizabeth.”
“I’ll see what I can dae. Whiles they have nae butter-milk up at the
fairm.”
The tone of Mrs. Macbean’s voice was not promising, and her
attitude, as, shovel in hand, she “made up” her fire, was positively
militant. Jim drew on his reserve fund of determination and stood his
ground.
“Well, can you spare a moment, Elizabeth? I have something to tell
you.”
“I hae thocht that,” replied Mrs. Macbean, with disconcerting
promptitude.
“And I hope you won’t take it unkind,” added Jim.
“I’ll mak nae promises,” snapped Elizabeth.
 M432
“NAY, ELIZABETH,” SAID JIM KINDLY, “THERE’S NO NEED FOR LOCKING UP.”

“Anyway, I must say it,” continued the lad gravely. “You know,
Elizabeth, as there’s ladies coming here to-day. I’ve told you all
about it, and how, though they’re my very own folk (Jim held his
head proudly), they’ve been brought up different. I’m wanting, most
of all, as they shall feel this cottage home-like, and so I’d not have
them miss, more than I can help, all they’ve had to give up. You’ve
always managed for grandfather and me, Elizabeth; and you’ve
served us faithful, as I’ll never forget. But when my stepmother and
my half-sister come (Jim was faithfully exact), they’ll be mistresses
here. I want you to go to one of them every day for orders, and do
your best to please them.”
Jim held his breath.
“Jist as ye please, sir,” was the sole response of Elizabeth; and
thrusting one hand deeply into a serviceable pocket, she dragged
out, with ostentatious indifference, a small bunch of keys, and flung
them clatteringly on to the kitchen-table.
“Nay, Elizabeth,” said Jim kindly, “there’s no need for locking up, and
I’m sure the ladies won’t wish it. Keep the keys, and give me your
promise as you’ll help me all you can. I’m a bit worried and sore-
hearted, Elizabeth.”
“There’s nae doot aboot that,” returned the old dame, though
evidently mollified. “I hae watched ye ever since ye telt me o’ the
happenings at the grand hoose yonder, where your fine leddy mither
and sister wear their silks an’ satins; and I hae seen the speirit gang
oot o’ ye. But I’ll dae your wull, maister.”
“That’ll be all right, then, Elizabeth,” said Jim, sighing in relief of
spirit. “You’ve made the cottage beautiful clean and fresh-like, and
I’m sure you’ll keep things nice.”
Then Mrs. Macbean uplifted her long person after a final dash at the
coals, and emphasized her speech with her loaded shovel.
“I hae served gentlefolk afore,” she remarked grimly; “and I’m no
needin’ tellin’ as to hoo I’ll serve them the noo. There’s ae thing
mair. I hae kent, lang afore ye hae telt me onything, Maister Jim,
that ye were come o’ gentle folk yersel. Ye hae a’ the look o’ it; and
I’m thinkin’ it’s a peety.”
With these uncompromising words, Mrs. Macbean flung the contents
of her shovel on the fire, snatched up a broom, and vanished
through the back door. Jim sighed again, and went off to give the
rooms a final inspection. His last visit was to the “den” of which
Frances had told Miss Carlyon. Thence he emerged with a strange
glimmer of a smile on his lips.
As he stepped to the threshold of the front door, which stood wide
open to the warm August airs, he saw a sight which made him halt
irresolutely, while his pulses throbbed in sheer nervous excitement.
A couple of girls had just reached the gate, and were pacing slowly
up the path between the glowing flower-beds: as they came, they
pointed out eagerly to one another old favourites they could
recognize among the cared-for luxuriance of the borders.
“See!” said the sweet, clear voice of Frances, “isn’t that a splendid
clump of southernwood? And those deep purple pansies—I love
them!”
Jim caught his breath sharply. If Frances could “love” anything about
Rowdon!
“What darling snapdragons—white and yellow and red!”
“And those briar roses—aren’t they late?”
The girls bent low to enjoy the varied fragrance. Jim felt something
in his throat, and for a moment saw the pretty girlish figures through
a mist. A sudden access of joy filled his heart. Could it be that his
home was to know the familiar presence of such as these? Could
anything he had to offer be worthy of their soft eyes and dainty
hands? He gazed, in a happiness he could not have explained, at the
gracious picture before him. Only a pair of charming English lassies;
but for simple Jim they were an inspiration to love all that was
highest, purest, worthiest.
Florry Fane lifted her head, and caught sight of Frances’s
“blacksmith-brother”. Florry did not keep her intellect for book-
studies, and she called on it now to help the situation.
“Hallo!” she exclaimed merrily, “there’s Jim! I shall run and ask him
to tell me the name of that pretty blue flower!”
She hurried on, and before Frances could overtake her had gained
the porch, and held out her hand to Jim, who stood waiting there.
“Good-morning, Mr. Morland!” said Florry, in gay greeting; “we’ve
come to make ourselves tremendously useful. We’ve great big
aprons in this bag, and Austin has lent us a hammer and a packet of
nails. We mean business, you see.”
Jim took the kind little hand, and bade Florry welcome with most
respectful courtesy. It was good of her to call him by his father’s
name; but, being Frances’s friend, she was, of course, a queen
among girls.
Frances came up, and finding the ice thus broken, managed to greet
Jim easily enough. The three talked for a few moments in the porch.
“Now we must go in and set to work,” declared Florry presently; and
Jim stood aside that she might lead the way; then, as Frances made
a shy motion to follow, he detained his sister by a slight gesture.
“I hope as you’ll find things right, Missy,” said the youth in a low
voice. “I’ve a lot of work to do in the smithy yonder, and I’ll be there
all day most like. Elizabeth will bring me something to eat; and so—
so—the place’ll be clear, if you and Miss Fane wish to stay. I bade
Elizabeth ask what you’d fancy,”—Jim coloured, and added with
some effort,—“and you won’t forget, Missy, as you’re mistress here.”
Frances wanted to say something kind and appreciative; but while
she watched her brother’s nervousness her own came back to her,
and she searched vainly for words which might make an approach to
frank confidence between them seem possible. Jim saw only her
hesitation, and hastily concluding that his forebodings had been
justified, stepped quietly out of the porch and took the side-path to
the smithy.
“I believe it will always be like this,” thought Frances, as she gazed
remorsefully after her brother’s tall, well set-up figure. “I wonder
why I’m such a silly? I wish he wouldn’t call me ‘Missy’. I wish I
could tell him nicely—so that he wouldn’t be vexed—that he ought to
say ‘Frances’, as Austin does. Austin would know how to do it, but
that’s because he behaved kindly and fairly and has nothing to be
ashamed of. And Jim has been so good to us, so generous and
forgiving; I ought to be proud of him—and I think I am, deep down
in my heart. It’s the top part of me that’s so ungracious and horrid.
How stupid to be shy, when he’s my own brother! Shall I ever be
sensible about it?”
Just as Frances reached this plaintive speculation her friend’s
patience gave way, and Florry, who had ventured on a peep into the
sitting-room, came back to fetch the loiterer.
“It looks quite nice already,” said Florry cheerfully. “There really isn’t
much for us to do, except the ‘etceteras’.” She dragged Frances
forcibly into Mrs. Morland’s future sanctum. “See! even the curtains
have been put up; and don’t they hang nicely? One of your brothers
has ideas, Frances! I wonder which of them ‘disposed’ that drapery?”
“Not Austin; he wouldn’t be bothered!” laughed Frances. “The room
does look pretty. Those soft gray walls are such a nice background
for the pictures. It was kind of the creditor-people to let Mamma
keep some of her pictures and china, wasn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” said Florry soberly. “But as your mother wasn’t really
a bit to blame—”
“Don’t! Miss Carlyon says the more I ‘nurse a grievance’ the worse
things will seem. I’m certain she’s right; for I begin to feel my ‘angry
passions rise’ the moment I give them a chance.”
“Come, then—to business! Here are two suggestive-looking boxes
already unfastened for us. What lurks within, fellow-conspirator?”
“Nothing very mysterious. Only a few special treasures of Mamma’s,
and some of her books, and other odds and ends. There’s the empty
book-case in that corner. Good Austin! He has remembered to put up
the brackets and small shelves for the china.”
“Isn’t that a pretty little overmantel? I don’t recollect seeing it at
Elveley. What dainty carving!”
“It never was at Elveley,” said Frances, in a puzzled voice; “and it is
pretty. Those two long shelves will be lovely for photographs and the
little figures papa brought from India. Oh! the overmantel is a
blessing. Let’s make haste to fill it.”
“No—I’ll do the books, and leave you the treasures. Ah, what a jolly
Browning! Isn’t this binding perfect? Hallo! it’s Rivière’s! Frances,
you’re a lucky girl. It ought to make you amiable to live with this.”
“Goose! I like a binding I can handle. I wouldn’t give my own
Browning for that; though I own that Rivière, like our unknown
genius of the curtains, has ‘ideas’.”
“Here’s an edition of Jane Austen in crimson morocco. Frances, I
wouldn’t have Jane Austen in crimson. She ought to be bound in
French gray, or ‘puce’, or anything old-fashioned and sweet. Never
mind; here she goes, dear old thing! When we’ve finished with this
room, Francy, do let’s unpack your treasures. I helped you to pack
them, so I shall know just where everything is.”
Frances shook her head. “I told Austin to send my boxes to the little
place upstairs. There’s no room for their contents anywhere.”
Florry looked unmistakably crestfallen.
“You see, this is the only sitting-room besides Jim’s den,” continued
Frances hastily; “and Mamma and I have to share a bedroom. I’ve
been wondering where I shall pop my mammoth work-basket.”
“Oh, Frances! Your beautiful Altruist basket!” Florry saw her friend
wince, and, running across the room, threw her arms about the
other lassie and hugged her close. “Come back to us, Francy dear!
oh, do! You were the first Altruist, and the best—”
“Ah, no, no!” cried Frances, with a tremble in her voice; “I was just a
great humbug—a mean pretender!”
“You never were. You started it all; and, Frances, it has been of
some use to Woodend. The Rector says so, and Mr. Carlyon, and Dr.
Brenton, and—Max. If Max says so—who would dispute Max?
Francy, all the girls and boys want you to come back.”
“I can’t till I’m gooder,” said Frances, wavering between sobs and
smiles. “I’m a shabby, horrid thing! Florry, don’t let’s talk of those
jolly old times—before last Christmas. See! I’m going to work hard. I
won’t say another word till I’ve finished.”
Florry could both see and hear that the resolve was a wise one; so
she went sedately back to her books, and was in the thick of
“business” when the sitting-room door was pushed open and Mrs.
Macbean entered.
The girls at once greeted the old woman,—whom they had seen
more than once when they had paid holiday visits to the smithy,—
with a pleasant word and smile.
“I hae made a bit dinner for ye, Missies,” said Elizabeth, striving after
the manners she considered due to gentlefolk, “and I hae pit doon
the table-claith, as the maister’s bidding was, in the room on the
ither side o’ the passage. Maybe ye’ll ring the bell yonder when ye’re
minded for me to serve ye.”
“Oh, Elizabeth, you are good!” said Frances gratefully. “We meant to
go home for dinner; but it is a long way, isn’t it, Florry?”
“Rather! And we’ve such lots to do. Elizabeth—best of Elizabeths!—
do say we are to have some of those delicious scones you brought
to us once when we came here to plague you!”
“Surely ye’ll no be minding on my bits o’ scones, Missy?” inquired
Mrs. Macbean graciously. “The likes o’ you lassies I never did see!
Weel, I’ve nae doot I can obleege ye; and ye’ll likely no refuse a
whang o’ the cream cheese that the fairm-wife sent till the maister
this morning. Come awa’ wi’ ye, Missies, ben the ither room, and I’ll
bring the dishes in. It’s one o’clock—late eneuch for bairns.”
Elizabeth bustled away, secretly well pleased that it was once more
her lot to wait on gentlefolk. Perhaps there was in the peasant
woman’s nature a strain of sympathy which, if it made her jealous
for her “maister’s” rights and dignity, was no less capable of
appreciating the trouble which had fallen on Jim’s “fine leddy mither
and sister”.
The girls ran upstairs to wash their dusty hands, and chased each
other down again amid peals of laughter, which brought indulgent
smiles to Mrs. Macbean’s face and sent her with good-will to her
serving.
“Fancy dining in Jim’s den!” laughed Frances, pausing at the door.
“We shall need to use the sitting-room for meals, I suppose, when
we’ve a proper table there. I’m glad we’re going in here to-day. It’s a
lovely place, Florry,—all shelves and saw-dust, and dear little saws
and hammers and things. Don’t you like a carpenter’s shop? I do. I
always envied the boy Altruists—”
Frances, having by this time led the way into “Jim’s den”, stood just
beyond the threshold, too absolutely surprised at what she now saw
to remember after what fashion she had envied the boys. The room
had undergone a transformation. The walls had been freshly covered
with a pretty paper; the wide, latticed windows had been hung with
dainty Madras muslin, with sage-green draperies at either side to be
drawn across at night. The carpet was of the same soft tint, and so
were the furnishings of two or three wicker chairs placed at cosy
points. The deep window-seat held a couple of big cushions of
yellow silk, and was thickly padded, and covered to match the
chairs. On a table close to the window stood the Altruist work-
basket. Most of the shelves which Frances had admired still ran
along the walls, and on them were neatly ranged, not the
paraphernalia of handicrafts, but the many special possessions of
Frances and Austin. Their own treasured volumes filled two plain
book-cases, whence had been banished the hoarded sum of Jim’s
library.
Before her eyes had taken in half the details, Frances turned to
Florry and exclaimed impetuously: “Oh, what made him do this?
How could he? Jim has given up his den to us!”
“He is a brick!” said Florry heartily. “Now you know where your
things are going, Frances. I believe they are all here. There’s your
mother’s Christmas present”—Florry pointed to the desk on a side-
table spread with the children’s writing materials. “There’s your
easel, and your paint-boxes are on the shelf close at hand. What’s
behind that inviting-looking curtain hung between those two
shelves?”
“Austin’s photographic things,” replied Frances, peeping; “here are
his cameras, plates, papers, chemicals, and everything. He is to use
the bath-room for developing; he has been covering the window
with red stuff. Fancy a bath-room in a cottage like this! Jim’s
grandfather built it out at the back.”
“Austin will be very much obliged to him.”
“Florry,” said Frances, a troubled look in her eyes, “I don’t think
Austin and I ought to take this room from Jim. He cannot possibly
have anywhere else to go. I think I will just find my way to the
smithy this very moment, and talk to him about it.”
“Good!” returned Florry equably; “I will e’en to that cosy window-
seat and watch for your return.”
Frances departed in a hurry for fear of failing courage; and Florry,
who had something to say, but was in no haste to say it, carried a
book to the window and felt herself at home.
Jim stood by his anvil, making, with level, well-aimed blows, rough
nails for farmers’ use. He had flung off his coat and waistcoat, rolled
up his sleeves, and donned a leathern apron. It was Jim the
blacksmith on whose hardy toil Frances cast shy and interested eyes.
He did not look so unapproachable as she had expected; but it was
evident that her coming had startled him. The lad laid down his
hammer, however, and stepped forward at once.
“You want me, Missy?” he said quickly, with an undefined hope that
his sister might be about to command his willing service.
“Oh no!” said Frances; “I didn’t mean to interrupt you—at least, only
for a minute. I came to say that—that Florry and I have been looking
at your room—”
Jim was hungering for a word of satisfaction. If, indeed, he had
pleased Frances, surely he might dare to hope that he had not
begun amiss.
“You used to have so many things there,” continued Frances, her
self-possession deserting her as she noted the expression of her
brother’s grave young face. “I don’t think Austin and I ought to be
so much in your way.”
“You could never be that, Missy,” said Jim, whose spirits sank
unaccountably at the painful courtesy of Frances’s manner. “It’ll be
right for you to have a little place where you’ll feel private-like, and
know as nobody will interfere.”
“You are kind, Jim,” said Frances; and the girl hung her head in
shame that no warmer words would come at her bidding.
“Surely not,” said Jim dejectedly. “There’s no talk of kindness so long
as I can do aught—” Jim hesitated, fearing to offend by some
obtrusively brother-like speech, and his pleading glance fell at the
sight of Frances’s averted head. “There, Missy,” he continued gently;
“don’t you go for to trouble yourself about my bits of things. I’ve a
deal more room for them in the big shed behind here; and they’ll be
handier to get at. You’ve no call to think twice of them.”
Then Frances stepped close, and laid her hand on Jim’s arm.
“You are kind—and good,” she said earnestly. “I don’t know why you
should take us in here, and bother about us at all.”
“Don’t, Missy!” murmured Jim, keenly wounded. “Who should care
for you and the little lad, if not me?”
“Nobody would, Jim; nobody. And I don’t see why you should. But
indeed I do want to help, and to share the work all I can. I shall
soon find out—and I’ll beg Elizabeth to teach me.”
“No!—no!” Jim was touched at his tenderest point. “You’ll do naught
here but what pleases you, Missy. ’Tis for men to work and make
beautiful homes for their lady-folk.”
“Girls work now as well as boys, Jim,” returned Frances rather
wistfully. She had been wont to dream of the life-work which should
be hers some day—of voluntary, altruistic toil among the poor and
suffering of the great city; not of humdrum daily tasks which could
claim no more fascinating name than the prosaic one of duty.
“I cannot see as that’s right, Missy,” said Jim; and Frances looked
with a certain pity at this lad born out of due time—this old-
fashioned believer in the right of woman to be worked for, and set
apart and worshipped. If he could have heard Miss Cliveden’s
impassioned voice as she urged her pupils to remember their sacred
claim to share with men the glorious task of making history!
Jim was utterly out of date. He bent his head and kissed reverently
the little fingers resting on his arm; then caught up his hammer and
began afresh to work for his “lady-folk” with all his peasant might.
Frances went slowly back to her comrade.
“Jim will make us keep the room,” said the girl with conviction; “and
I do not believe I even thanked him properly.”
“I wouldn’t worry him with gratitude,” remarked Florry the
philosopher. “I would just clear a corner for him and ask him to
occupy it. I fancy he would like that better than thankings.”