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HOW THE YEARS WENT BY.
image016IT was a sad change for poor little Clarice! From being the most active and daring among the children, the leader in all play, and, indeed, in all mischief too, frolicking about full of health and glee, to lie there in sore pain day after day, night after night, never able to move from her bed, or to join in any the old plays!
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IT was a sad change for poor little Clarice! From being the most active and daring among the children, the leader in all play, and, indeed, in all mischief too, frolicking about full of health and glee, to lie there in sore pain day after day, night after night, never able to move from her bed, or to join in any the old plays!
It was not wonderful that she was cross and fretful; and as every one was ready to humour her, and do anything to alleviate her suffering, she ran a terrible risk of becoming selfish and overbearing, and a great burden to all about her. But her heavenly Father had His own good purpose for little Clarice. The dark cloud was full of blessings, not for herself alone. She was to be blessed herself, and a blessing to all she loved; and do you suppose that her baptism of sorrow was a thing to be deplored? Ah, no! And so Clarice would tell you now; but it seemed unbearable then.
For a long, long time all seemed very dark. Poor Elise's heart was almost broken with watching the suffering which she could so seldom relieve, and the weariness she began to fear would be for life. Guy, who hardly knew himself without Clarice, gave up all his old ways, and sat by her bed patiently, trying very hard to please and amuse her; but his mother saw that he was growing pale and thin, and so she refused to let him remain indoors all day.
And this was the cause of the first serious struggle between Clarice and her mother. Clarice wept and fretted, and wanted her willing slave back again; and the poor mother found it very hard to deny her, but for Guy's sake she could not permit it. Then Clarice screamed, and thrust away the gentle hands that were always busy for her, and abused every one with such vigour and heartiness, that she proved herself quite worthy to be old Sir Aymer's grandchild. But she was very penitent next day, poor little woman, though she still cried and fretted to have Guy beside her. This was more than a year after the accident, and the monotony of her life was getting harder to bear every day.
One day Mrs. Egerton was alone with her; the rest were busy in the garden, digging and wheeling in the potatoes for the year.
"Mother," said Clarice, after a long silence, "how long do you think I must live?"
"My darling! Don't talk like that. I cannot bear it."
"But I was thinking last night, and I must talk about it. You see, I'm of no use now, and no pleasure to any one, not even to myself. And I suppose I never shall be any more; so I wish I was dead!"
"Clarice! We don't want you to be of use. My poor little darling!—We can do well, there are plenty to work and care for you."
"But I have so much pain, mother, and no fun now; so it would be a good thing if I was dead. What is the use of being alive, if I must be always like this?"
"It's the will of the good God," said Mrs. Egerton. Poor thing! It was a phrase she had heard her own hard-working mother use when things went wrong; and she thought it was the right thing to say.
But, alas, she know very little about Him whose name she thus used as a sort of spell. In the part of Germany where she was born, religion is at a very low ebb; and since she came to Ireland, neither she nor her husband, nor, of course, the children, had over been inside a church, except when there was a baby to be christened. The nearest church was six miles off, and they had no conveyance, save a common cart.
At first the Rector of E— used to visit them when he could find time; but he never saw anyone except Mr. Egerton, who let him see that his visits were unwelcome, and were considered an intrusion. At last Mr. Egerton was almost rude to him, so he gave up coming.
"Is He good?" asked Clarice, after a long silence.
"Is who good, dear?" Mrs. Egerton said, rousing herself from thought.
"God. You said that I am like this because it is His will. Is He good, mother?"
"Yes, my dear," answered the mother, promptly.
"But how do you know that? If He is good, why does He wish me to be like this? Are you sure He is good?"
"The Bible says so; and besides, He made us all—He gives us all we have—He redeemed us."
"What's that?" said Clarice.
"Oh! Clarice, liebchen, I don't know these things well enough to talk about them. We were all lost, and so He sent His Son to save us."
"Lost! Tell me all about it, mother."
"Why, you know all that, don't you, dear? I've taught you every one as much as I know myself."
"But it is so long since I did any lessons that I forget things. I know His name was Jesus, but I don't see, I can't remember, how He saved us. And what does being lost mean, mother?"
"Being bad and wicked, and not going to heaven."
"But we are not all bad. I dare say papa wants to be saved; but you are good, and so are Lizzie and Helen, and Aymer, and Guy, and Katty. No: perhaps Katty wants saving, for I've heard her swear, and sometimes she tells lies."
"We are all sinners—the Bible says so," Mrs. Egerton answered, helplessly. It was terrible to her to have to answer such questions and to hear such strange remarks.
"I think I am," Clarice said, thoughtfully. "Perhaps it is not right to be cross and to cry and fret and vex you. But, there, I never did when I was well and strong, and I would not do it now if I was well again. And yet you think it is God's will that I should be like this!"
She remained silent for so long a time that her mother hoped she had forgotten all about it. But poor little Clarice had not forgotten, and was floundering about very hopelessly on the margin of that wide and deep sea of perplexity in which many a better-found boat than hers has gone down. Presently she sighed deeply and said,—
"I wish I knew how to be good! I am afraid I am not good; and then if I die, I might not go to heaven; and then it would be better for me to live, even though I never get any better. You would go to heaven, mother—you're always good!"
"Ah, no, Clarice! I'm afraid not."
"Afraid you won't go to heaven?"
"No, no—afraid I'm not good."
"But that's all the same thing, for only good people go to heaven. I remember that much, at least. But I know you are good, mother dear, so don't you be frightened; but I ought to be frightened, for I am not a bit good. I feel full of crossness, and sometimes nearly hate people when I hear them running and jumping. And when baby was born, I hated her, because then you could not nurse me so much; and I hate—"
"Oh, Clarice, be still. It is wrong to hate any one, and I am sure you don't."
"I do sometimes, really. I'm afraid I am not good at all. If I was well and strong, I would be good; so it's not my own fault, after all."
"God will make you good, if you ask Him," Elise said, after a silent struggle. Her heart reproached her, both for her own ignorance and that of the child; but she did not know what to say.
"I should like to know more about Him, and about His Son who came to save us. Mother, where's the big Bible with the pictures, that you used to read us the story of Joseph and his brethren out of? Won't all about God be in the Bible? Do, mother, put down your work and read me a bit, just a story, out of the Bible."
Very glad to exchange talking for reading, Mrs. Egerton put away her work, and went down-stairs for the big Bible.
"What shall I road, Clarice? Joseph and his brothers, is it to be?"
"Not to-day. I want to read about God's Son. Begin at the beginning, please."
So Elise began at the first chapter of St. Matthew's Gospel. The child listened eagerly, and her questions and remarks prevented any inattention on the part of the reader. Among all Mr. Egerton's books there were none that a child would be likely to care for, and the elder children had never wished for any, so that reading was an amusement for Clarice of which no one had thought until now. She was a clever child, and her life of inactivity forced her to be a thoughtful one; and now she drunk in the words of the "sweet story of old" as if she heard it for the first time—which, indeed, was the case—for she had only learned a few of the leading facts as a lesson, and that long ago.
"'Thou shalt call His name Jesus, for He shall save His people from their sins.' Why, mother, that must mean that He will make them good."
"I suppose so, dear."
"His people. Who are His people, though? Am I one of them?"
A question which Mrs. Egerton could not answer; so she said,—
"Let me read on, Clarice; the others will be coming in soon."
She went on with the story; but the death of the babes of Bethlehem proved too much for poor Clarice, and her burst of lamentation brought the first reading to an abrupt conclusion.
"Oh, the poor little babies!—Little, small babies like our Agnes—all murdered; and their mothers loved them as you love us. Oh, how could he do it? Mother, are you sure it is true?"
And when she was going to sleep that night, Clarice begged that baby Agnes might be brought to her, that she might kiss her.
"Oh, little baby," she whispered, "I said I hated you, but it was not true! How could that Herod hurt a wee little white thing like you?"
But next day, she had got over her horror sufficiently to permit her to wish for more of the "story about His Son," as she called it. And patient Elise laid aside her needle and read on. The history of the preaching of the Baptist, of our Lord's baptism, and of the temptation were read and listened to in silence; but when they reached the twenty-fourth verse of the fourth chapter, where miracles of healing are recorded, Clarice sighed deeply.
"If I had lived in those days, Aymer would have carried me a hundred miles to find Him," she said.
Mrs. Egerton hastily turned over the leaf and began the Sermon on the Mount.
Neither mother nor child ever forgot that reading. Clarice had never heard it before: Elise had read it with her eyes only. But now, with a pair of great blue eyes, dark and bright, fixed on her face, and a little eager voice insisting on a meaning for every word and sentence, somehow there was a great deal in that sermon that Elise had never seen there before. There was much that she could not explain, for she was very ignorant, and her mind was smothered under all her cares; but there was much that seemed very plain.
They went no further that day, and the result of Clarice's meditations was expressed when her mother was leaving her for the night.
"Mother, one lovely thing is that even if I don't get well, I may try to be good. You know He said that it was meek people, and peace-makers, and those that mourn, that are blessed. And all those things I can try to be. Only it won't be easy, because when I have bad pain, I do like to scream and be cross."
I cannot delay to tell of each day's reading; but before they reached the end of St. Matthew's Gospel, Elise Egerton had begun to find rest for her poor wounded heart and troubled mind in Him whose "name is Jesus, because He saves His people from their sins."
The picture Bible was too large and too heavy for Clarice to hold, which was a great grief to her, because she had no other books, and, besides, if she could have been the reader, her mother could have listened and gone on with her mending at the same time. One day, when her father paid her one of his rare visits, the child gathered courage to ask him a question.
"Papa, are Bibles ever made into small books?"
"Yes, certainly," he answered, absently.
"And yet all the Bible is in the book?" she asked again. "They don't leave out bits, do they?"
"No. The print is small, you know, so that it requires less space."
"I do wish I had a little Bible," she half whispered.
"What do you want with a Bible, child?"
"To read; mother reads to me when she has time, but if I could read, she might work and listen. But I can't hold the big Bible, you see."
"Why do you want to read it?" Mr. Egerton asked, with a smile upon his lips.
"Because it makes us happy."
The answer puzzled him, and touched him too.
"Poor little Clarice! If it does that, read it by all means. I will give you a small one."
He left the room, and she heard him go to his study.
"He will forget all about it!" she thought: but no, he was coming up-stairs again.
In his hand he carried a small Bible bound in crimson velvet. A gold shield on the cover bore the name "Clarice." Mr. Egerton's face was unwontedly soft and sad, as he looked at the book, as if half unwilling to part with it.
But Clarice did not perceive this as she stretched out her hands and took possession of the book.
"Oh, papa, how beautiful! I did not know that a book could be so beautiful. And my name is on it! How very strange!"
"It is yours now," he said, slowly. "It was once—It once belonged to my sister Clarice, after whom you were named: you are like her too, very like her. I will give you the book, child; but keep it out of my sight, I could not bear to see it lying about."
"Indeed, it shall never lie about," Clarice said. "Papa, I don't know how to say thank you."
She was too much awed by his agitation and by his unusual kindness, to say anything more, and with instinctive tact, she covered it until he left her. But when he was gone, she began eagerly to try to read it; and, behold, to her horror, she had forgotten all but a very few words. Guy, coming in with some flowers, (he brought her fresh flowers every day, even if he had to trudge two miles to find them), found her bewailing herself sadly.
"Oh, Guy, isn't it too bad? Look at the lovely Bible papa has given me, and I've very nearly forgotten the letters. I'm like Katty, for I could read my own name on the cover, just as she can write hers, and no more."
"Don't cry, Clarice; I'll run for my spelling-book, and teach you all over again," said Guy, promptly.
This lesson proved the beginning of much pleasure to both. Guy was a clever boy, and Clarice was clever too, and the accident which had overshadowed both the bright young lives, made them thoughtful children. There were plenty of books, English, Latin, Greek, German and French; some not very good for such young readers, perhaps, but none that any child was likely to read unless under peculiar circumstances.
As to the Latin and Greek, when this fever for study seized upon the children, they were in despair, to find so many books that were useless to them. But, nothing daunted, Guy coaxed his mother to buy him a Latin Grammar one day that she went into E—, to buy some clothing. And among his father's books, he found a dictionary. These were treasures indeed! And it was really astonishing to see how much they succeeded in learning without help.
But it happened that one day Mr. Egerton found Clarice struggling with a difficult sentence in a Latin book, and questioning her, was surprised to find how much she knew. Clarice was the only creature he ever seemed to care for, and, to her surprise and delight, he offered to give her lessons.
"Teach me Latin! Will you really, papa?"
"I will," he answered, with a sigh. "Your life needs any brightness that I can give it."
"And Guy, too, papa—we work together."
"No," he answered, frowning. "Of what use would Latin be to him? Let him learn to dig and plough, like his eldest brother. If you could work, I would not teach you; and I am not sure that I am doing you a kindness as it is."
"Oh yes, papa; indeed you are," she answered, timidly.
After this, Mr. Egerton gave her an occasional lesson. Sometimes he forgot all about it for days together, and at other times would get interested in her intelligent way of learning, and give her several lessons day after day. How hard Clarice worked, and how delightedly she taught her new acquirements to Guy! It was new life to Clarice, this world of books; and as to Guy, he soon left her behind in many things, though they still worked together and helped each other.
Mr. Egerton's fancy for teaching Clarice only lasted a few months; about a year and a half. At the end of that time, she was well enough to long to be in the room where the others worked and took their meals; and Aymer and Guy contrived a couch for her, made out of six disabled chairs. On this, by means of stout poles passed under the head and foot, they could lift her without hurting her. A little room inside the parlour, which had hitherto been unused, was got ready for her, Aymer papering it afresh with his own hands; and in this room and the adjoining parlour, lifted from one to the other by her brothers and sisters, did Clarice spend many a year of her young life.
But when she came down-stairs, and was again one of the family, Mr. Egerton quite left off teaching her, or taking any special notice of her. However, by that time, Guy and Clarice could get on by themselves. And many a boy and girl, with teachers and governesses ever trying to improve them, would have wondered at the amount of good solid learning which they contrived to acquire.
Nor was Clarice content to be any longer a useless member of that busy family.
"Mother, dear," she said, "you must teach me to knit and sew and darn. I am afraid I cannot do very much, but even a little will be some help."
She soon learned, being very much in earnest. But, one day, having worked at hemming some stiff new sheets until she was over-tired and a little feverish, she burst into tears, exclaiming that she was a burden and a bother! She could do nothing, though she wished to do so much!
"Clarice, liebchen," said her mother, softly, "listen now to me. It seems to me, dear little one, that you are making a mistake. If you do what you can, the good God knows why you don't do more."
Clarice ceased crying; and after a few moments, she took her velvet-covered Bible from under her pillow, and turned the leaves slowly. At last she found what she wanted, and read aloud the words:
"'She hath done what she could.' Mother, I will try to remember that. It was not much that she did; yet He said that it should be told wherever His Gospel was preached, for a memorial of her. I shall never be good for much; but I'll do what I can."
"Yes; for His dear sake, my child. Yes, and you are to fret no more. Just do what you can; you are very useful to me, Clarice; and when you are tired, rest, and don't make yourself miserable. Thou hast but little strength, poor child; thy heart is greater than thy strength."
When Mrs. Egerton was moved, she sometimes fall into the "thee" and "thou" of her native tongue.
I have now given you a brief account of things which took three or four years in passing. Clarice was nine years old when she met with her accident, and I leave her now at thirteen, a sufferer still, but no longer a hopeless, repining sufferer. In the rest of my story, I hope to show you what kind of girl this poor little Clarice became, and how she bore her part in the battle of life.
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CONSULTATION.
image019SEVERAL years passed away, having brought with them several changes.First, the universal failure of the potato crop all over Ireland utterly ruined many of the hard-working poor men who used to rent Mr. Egerton's fields; and the greater number of them emigrated—the greater number, I mean, of those who did not die of the terrible fever which followed the year of famine.
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SEVERAL years passed away, having brought with them several changes.First, the universal failure of the potato crop all over Ireland utterly ruined many of the hard-working poor men who used to rent Mr. Egerton's fields; and the greater number of them emigrated—the greater number, I mean, of those who did not die of the terrible fever which followed the year of famine.
The land thus thrown upon their hands, Aymer and Guy manfully tried to work; but though Aymer would certainly have done well if he had a little capital, all he could do now was simply to ward off actual want. There was no help to be looked for from Egerton Highfield, for the kind older brother was dead; and Elise had lost both father and mother, and had no one left who could be expected to aid her. Actual want of bread was never felt at Ballintra, but, oh, it was a hard life!
Aymer took the "famine fever," and was very ill for many weeks, and his mother was sadly worn in nursing him.
Some time before this, Lizzie had been married to the son of a Scotch farmer who had recently come into the country; and when the distress began, Helen, with her mother's consent, took a situation as nursery governess in the family of a Mr. Wynne, who lived a few miles from Ballintra. So there were two less to provide for; and Helen sent every penny she could spare to her mother.
But of course the work all fell upon poor Elise, and the nursing of Aymer too. She worked, and stinted herself, and kept things going; and Aymer recovered, and was soon as well as ever. But his mother was worn out, poor gentle, loving woman! worn out and heart-sore, and had no longer strength to bear up under her trials. Another babe was born to her at about this time, and though she recovered, and was once more about and at work, she felt that her days were numbered; her long, weary work was done. And so it proved. Silently and meekly, as she had lived, she passed away.
Helen had come home to nurse her; Lizzie was there too; all her children were about her, even poor Clarice, propped up on her couch, that she might watch the dear worn face to the last. If deep and reverential love could have made her happy, she surely had it from those warm young hearts; but all their love could not keep her with them. Her work was done, and she entered into her rest.
A week passed like a dream. Elise Egerton lay buried in the little churchyard of Kilsteen, and her children sat in the bare, tidy parlour, trying to face bravely their future life. In losing their mother, they had lost their provider, their adviser, their head and guide; and very desolate the poor things felt. Yet they must live, and the question was how could their orphaned life be best managed?
"One thing is certain," said Helen, "I must stay at home. In fact, I have written to Mrs. Wynne to explain to her why I cannot go back, even for a week. But I am afraid I shall make a bad hand of it, having been now for some time out of the way of such work; and the twenty pounds a year is a loss, too. Aymer, have you any idea how much we have to depend upon?"
"Oh yes," said Aymer, with a short laugh—not a very mirthful one. "And it won't be much trouble to you to count it. Nothing. That's the sum."
"Nothing! But there must be something, or how do we live at all?"
"Nothing to depend on, I mean. There's no letting the land now, you know; the country is a desert, and there's no one left to take it. Guy and I put our work and strength into it, and we get out of it just what feeds us and helps to clothe us, after paying the rent. It is well for us that the debt was paid off before the famine, for we could not even pay the interest now. But as to depending on it, why, if one of us was ill again, or had an accident, the game would be up. And that's not the worst of it, either."
"Why, what worse can there be?" exclaimed Lizzie. "I am sure that's bad enough. You all work like slaves, and just get coarse food (not too much even of that), and clothes that barely keep you warm in winter. What worse can there be than that?"
"This," Aymer said, looking round cautiously, and then getting up to shut the door. "Girls, you must know it sooner or later; and Guy says I had better tell you, for that secrets are bad among those who mean to sink or swim together. Only for that I wouldn't make you sadder than you are already. Do you know that my father only holds a lease of this place for his own life and hers—my mother's?"
"No; but I don't understand," said Helen.
"It means this: that we are working for bare bread, not laying by a penny; and that if my father died to-morrow, we should all be turned out on the roadside."
"Oh, Aymer, that can't be."
"It is, indeed."
"But I thought the place, such as it is, belonged to us?" Helen persisted.
"Not an acre of it."
"At all events we could take it on: get another lease of it."
"I fear not, Nelly. The person my father took it from is dead, and the new owner is rich, and could improve the land, and make it worth double what we pay. He would never let it to us, without a penny of capital to do it justice. I cannot help it, so there's no use in fretting; but I do feel ashamed sometimes at the way I'm obliged to rack the land, taking out all I can get, and putting nothing, or next to nothing, in. There's no help for it. I don't see what we can do."
"But I do," said Guy, his dark face flushing with animation. "We must emigrate! I know you think this nonsense, Aymer, but indeed it is not. Just listen to me. You know, Liz, I go every day to Kilsteen, to help Billy Cox, the postmaster."
"What does he want help for?" said Lizzie. "I don't suppose he has six letters a day to sort."
"Six too many, dear Liz, for a postmaster who does not read 'hand o' write,' as he calls it. And he gives money orders too; and nicely he'd manage that without me! Well, the other day Miles Murphy (you know him, Aymer, Smiley Miley, of Askinagap) came to the office to get money on an order from New Zealand—enough money to pay his passage out, and get him a small outfit. And he told me all about it. His cousin Tom, Big Tom of the Ferry, was the first to go; he went the year the disease came," (Guy meant the potato disease, but he had learnt from the cotters to call it "the disease" simply), "and the next year he sent enough to get out his wife and children; and now he's getting Miles out; and he sends such accounts of the wages out there that you'd be fairly surprised. He gets seven shillings! Think of that, Aymer! Three half-crowns, all but sixpence, every day. And he was nothing but a common labourer. A fellow who can do what Aymer can—or I either, when I stop growing—"
"Ay, if you're ever going to stop, you young giant," said sturdy Aymer.
"A fellow who can reap and mow, and thatch and plough, shear, and carpenter, and everything—would get ten shillings a day there as easy as tenpence here; and it was Miley said it!"
In spite of their sad hearts, there was a general laugh at the fine rich brogue in which Guy concluded his story. The young Egertons all had pleasant accents, thanks to their foreign mother and English father, and a softening touch of the Irish brogue, but in his excitement, Guy unconsciously gave Smiley Miley's voice as well as his words.
"If half of that is true, I wish I was there," said Aymer. "One would soon save enough to get you all out."
"And that is what we must all look to and work for," went on Guy. He was a tall, slight lad of sixteen now, with a handsome, refined face and a thoughtful expression. "We must lay our heads together, see how we can make and save a little money; and then one of us—you, Aymer, or I—go out, and get the rest out by degrees."
"Save money!" said Helen. "But how, Guy? I see no way to do that."
"If we only had a little capital—just a few pounds to buy sheep. Aymer, if we wrote to my father's people—"
"Put that out of your head!" Aymer interrupted him by saying, shortly. "I will go to the poorhouse sooner, and see you all there too. Take money from those who let my mother slave all her life because they didn't think her good enough for them! Never speak of it to me, Guy."
"If the matter were put before my father, he might write—"
"Hold your tongue, Guy!" thundered Aymer. "My father!—I'll starve first! You may swallow insult and contempt, if you like, and then lick the hand that strikes you, but I won't! What possessed my father when he married, I don't know; but well I know, he never loved mother. He broke her heart, to begin with, and then he lived on her hard earnings; and as to us, he wouldn't know if we were all dead and buried, nor care either. We are only so many memorials of his mistake—he—"
"Aymer dear," said a soft clear voice, which had not been heard before in this consultation. It was Clarice who spoke, and her dark blue eyes were raised gently to his angry face, as she lay there still and patient on her couch, just as she had lain for so many years.
Aymer turned and looked at her, his face softening, as it always did for her.
"Guy did not mean to vex you; and papa is our father, you know. She would not have let us speak so of him."
"That's true," said Aymer, frankly. "But, Guy, like a good fellow, say no more of writing."
"He won't," Clarice said; "only, you know, we must think of every plan until we hit upon the right one."
Then she took Guy's hand and coaxed it a little, until his face lost the angry flush his brother's words had called up, and he smiled at her.
"Blessed are the peace-makers."
"Well—but what can we do?" asked Helen, somewhat mournfully.
"Muddle on as best we can, and die in the poorhouse," said Aymer.
"No, old fellow," said Guy, laying his hand on his brother's shoulder. "Surely, with youth and strength to help us, and a good cause that must have God's blessing on it, we need not fear that fate. Let us see if we can't save a few shillings among us. We'll have a bag, and Clarice shall keep it; and every penny we can screw up shall go into it. No sum to be considered too small, remember; and not a penny to be spent that can be bagged. In time, we shall have enough to take one of us out."
"I never saw the penny yet that we didn't want to spend on actual necessaries," said Aymer, despondingly.
"No, but you will soon. Now I mean to put a notice up in the Post-office window, offering my services as letter-writer and accountant. I daresay I shall get a little employment. There are plenty of farmers who are much in Billy Cox's condition as to reading 'hand o write' and keeping accounts, and maybe they'll employ me. As to letter-writing, I do that already for the whole neighbourhood, and for the future, I shall charge two-pence ahead. And, if you wouldn't mind, Aymer, if you didn't dislike it, I could tell you of something."
"Tell away, old fellow."
But Guy's eyes sought Clarice, doubtfully.
"He will like it; go on," said she, smiling.
"Well, Mr. Pearson, the Englishman who has taken the farm the Costillos had; you know, don't you? Well, he wants a person to undertake the care of his cattle. He called at the Post-office about it, and asked Billy to let it be known. The cattle would have to be driven out in the morning and driven in at night, bailed up, and bedded, and cared for. The land lies all along the other side of the river, just as far us our own goes on this; you could cross half a dozen times a day, and yet get a good deal done at home."
"What did he offer?" asked Aymer.
"Two shillings a day, and the man's food. Then that meant the whole day, of course. I suppose he would not give you so much, because you would only mind the cattle, and be of no other use to him."
"But then he would not have to feed me; I should live at home, you know. I'll go at once, and see Pearson. I can easily do it, for our land up there lies so much higher that I can keep an eye on the cattle all day long. We must repair the old boat. But tell me, Guy, why were you afraid I should not like this?"
"Oh, I don't know. You might have thought—"
"I suppose it is because I said that about writing to my father's people? But that's the very thing, Guy. I couldn't take their grudging charity; but I don't mind how hard I work, nor what I work at. I hope Pearson has not got a herd."
"I know he has not. One man he nearly hired, but then he found that he drank."
"Well, I don't drink," said Aymer, with a short laugh. "If I get this place, my wages will be so much clear gain, for with Guy and Katty to help, nothing will be neglected at home."
"And I've thought of something, too," said Clarice. "Helen, do you remember what you told me of Mrs. Wynne's surprise at the beauty of your needlework? Do you think she would give us a line to a shop in Dublin, saying we are fit people to be trusted? It's a shop where they sell children's clothes and ladies' things ready-made, and we, dear mother and I, were thinking of trying for employment; we were talking of it the very day before she became so ill. She had written, and sent a specimen of work; and the answer, which came that day, was that the work was beautiful, and that they would employ us, but we must get a line to say we might be trusted. They pay very well, too."
"What shop was it?" asked Helen.
"Mrs. Daly, 19, Grafton Street."
"Why, Mrs. Wynne deals with them!" cried Helen. "And I am sure she will recommend us; but I must send a specimen of my work, for I don't work quite as well as—as she did."
Poor Nelly! She broke down and cried; it was so hard to be forced to realise that the mother's work was done.
"The little frock we sent was my work," said Clarice, after a pause.
"And I'm sure Helen will have no time for needlework, more than mending and darning," said Lizzie Anderson. "You'll have all the work of the house to do, and you know what that means. Cooking, washing, cleaning, and baking once a week; minding the poultry; and then there's the baby, too."
"Well, but I'm young and strong, you know. I'll tell them not to send me work that must be done at once."
"And Katty does part of the washing," said Aymer.
"And I will draw all the water, fill the boilers, and bring in plenty of turf before I go out," said Guy.
"And I'll run messages, Helen, and feed the fowls, and wash the cups and dishes, and dust the rooms, and—oh, fifty other things!" cried little Agnes, looking up from her knitting. "We'll all help. Only Clarice can't help. Poor Clarice! What will you do?"
Clarice's blue eyes filled with tears.
"I can't do much, indeed, but I can work a good deal. I have to stop and rest, but I get a good deal done, and I work very neatly. Oh, I do hope—oh, Helen, I hope I won't be a burden to you!"
"Clarice! If you say that again, I shall be quite angry!" exclaimed Helen. "Do you think I've forgotten to love you because I've been away from home?"
Clarice drew a long breath, dried her eyes, and quieted herself as best she could.
Guy bent over her, and whispered,—
"Clarice, don't you know that you make home to me?"
And Aymer put his rough, hard hand on her head, and said, gruffly,—
"You're a goose, Clarice. Show me the baby."
For the baby was lying warm and safe in her arms. She could at least hold the baby, so she did it.
"You get some bright stuff and make a bag, Clarice," wont on Aymer; "a good big one, because there will be pence, you know. You are to be bag-keeper."
"I suppose because you are sure I shall not run away with it," said Clarice. "I have a piece of queer thick silk, that I think was once part of our grandmother's wedding-gown, which will just do for the bag, and I will make it at once. Who is that at the door?"
The door opened as she spoke, and Mr. Egerton came in. He seemed to be looking for something, but he did not speak until Helen asked him, "Do you want anything, sir?"
"I left a book here, yesterday, I think it was; and some days before I left some papers, loose sheets pinned together. I suppose you have thrown them away?"
He spoke slowly, and almost like a person in a dream, and his eyes kept wandering round and round the room, until they rested on the vacant wooden arm-chair by the table, the chair which none of them had the heart either to use or to set by. His colour changed—at least, his face changed somehow, for he had hardly any colour—he pointed to the chair, and said hurriedly,—
"Put that away; don't leave it standing there!"
And he turned and left the room quickly.
"Put it away," cried Aymer; "that I won't!"
"Yet it would be better, Aymer," said Clarice; "and I cannot help being glad that he misses her, and cares."
"Cares! He cares because his books and papers are no longer put by for him; that's about all he cares, Clarice."
"Oh, Aymer! I thought he looked very sad. Agnes, do you see that green book on the shelf in the corner? That's the book, and here are the papers in my basket. Here, Aggie, run to the study with them."
"But, Clarice, I'm afraid."
"Oh, you need not be a bit afraid, unless you're a little goosie. Run, now; you know you've got to be my feet, because I haven't any of my own."
The child went; and while she was absent, Clarice said, gravely, "I think we ought to make a resolution never to say anything of papa that mother would have checked us for. If we give ourselves the habit, it won't make things easier, and Agnes ought not to hear it; besides, it is wrong."
"So it is," said Aymer, briefly; "I won't do it again, Clarice."
"What did he say to you, Aggie?" asked Lizzie, as the child ran in, looking scared.
"He was crying," Agnes said, impressively; "he was sitting by the window, crying."
Clarice looked at Aymer, who shook his head.
"Oh, Aymer, don't be hard!"
"Be content if I am silent," Aymer said, quietly.
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ELISE ANDERSON'S PLAN.
image022THAT evening, Lizzie's young husband, Donald Anderson, came to Ballintra to take her home. The Anderson were respectable people, and rich compared to the Egertons; yet Donald was very proud of his pretty wife's high birth; and Lizzie was made much of by his thrifty parents, who were very fond of her. So it was with real sorrow that Mrs. Anderson became aware, as time went by, that Lizzie Was fretting grievously, though she tried not to show it before her big, red-haired Donald.
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THAT evening, Lizzie's young husband, Donald Anderson, came to Ballintra to take her home. The Anderson were respectable people, and rich compared to the Egertons; yet Donald was very proud of his pretty wife's high birth; and Lizzie was made much of by his thrifty parents, who were very fond of her. So it was with real sorrow that Mrs. Anderson became aware, as time went by, that Lizzie Was fretting grievously, though she tried not to show it before her big, red-haired Donald.
"Lizzie, lass, what's the matter wi' ye?" asked the old Scotchwoman, when several weeks had gone by, and Lizzie was still very low. "Is it fretting for your poor mother ye are? Do ye no believe that she's at peace, Lizzie? And was her life such a bright one, that you'd want to keep her at it for ever? Fie, lassie! I thought better of ye."
"I can't help crying, mother," said Lizzie. "It is not for her—indeed, I would not bring her back, for her lot was a hard one, and she was a broken-hearted woman. But, oh! Mrs. Anderson, I do feel so wicked; to live here in plenty, with no more to do than what is pleasant to me, and all of you so good to me, while poor Helen is slaving there night and day, with no one to help her but old Katty, who is better able for farm work than for house work. And all of them living so poorly—barely enough to eat, and no hope of better times to cheer them. I sometimes can hardly bring myself to eat a good dinner, for thinking of them."
"Hoots, child! Things are not so bad as that with them. You're low and nervous, my dear, and think too much of it."
"Because I feel as if I ought to be there helping. I am the eldest, you know; it is too much for Helen alone, and Agnes is only seven, and Clarice has to be cared for as much as the baby."
"Poor child! I aye pity her the most, for you need only look at her to know she'd help if she could. Well now, Lizzie, I tell you I honour you for feeling like this. You're married to a man that has enough and to spare, and you ought to help. It never struck me before—to my shame I say it—but I see it plain enough now, and I'm the last woman in the world to counsel you to show a cold heart to your own folk. You'd be none the better wife for that. But let us lay our heads together and see if there's no way you could help them."
"Oh, Mrs. Anderson, there is a way; but I hardly like to speak of it."
"Speak your mind, dearie. If it's any way feasible, I'll help you to it; and if not, I'll tell you why, and it will go no further."
"You see, we have such nice comfortable rooms, and such plenty of everything, milk and eggs and fruit, and all that is good and nourishing. And I have plenty of time; it would be no trouble to me to care for her. If I might have poor Clarice here for a long visit! It would be such a relief to Helen, and so so good for Clarice; and it would make me so happy."
"Do you know, that's the very thing that was in my own mind? It's a most wise-like notion—far the best thing we could do for them. We could bring her over in the big spring cart very easily. Then there's that sofa the good-man would buy, and that I never could see the use of; and no doubt the poor child would be better here with you and me to see to her; and Helen will get on right well if Clarice is taken off her hands."
"But do you really think, mother, that Mr. Anderson will allow it?"
"Lizzie, there's not a better man in Scotland—or out of it, which is more to the purpose—than Andrew Anderson! A just man he is, and a kind. He knows well that Donald is his right hand, and that if Donald is content to live with us, it's but fair that he and his wife should have their own way in their own affairs. And more than that, he's real kind and tenderhearted; and once we have Clarice here, he'll be for spoiling her well, you see if he won't. But he's certainly a wee bit touchy, times; and so I'll advise you to leave the matter alone until I'll see a good moment to get his consent. I won't forget it; and there's no time lost, for we could not move her until fine summer weather, and before that comes, I'll get Andrew's consent."
"Dear Mrs. Anderson, you are very good to me!"
"'Deed, and so I ought! My one son's wife—who'd I be good to unless just to your bonnie self, my hinnie? So cheer up now, Lizzie, and don't fret any more. We'll have Clarice on that sofa before long—mark my words, we will."
Whether old Mr. Anderson was more "touchy" than was usual with him or not, I do not know. Mrs. Anderson said that "lambing time was hard on farmer's tempers." And after lambing time, there was sickness among the cattle; and after that the grey mare had a fall, and cut her knee; and all these circumstances gave Mrs. Anderson reason for delay. But I suspect the dear old woman had made up her mind that Lizzie should not undertake this additional work until after the birth of her baby, which took place the last week in April.
Then more than a month passed before Lizzie could venture on so long a drive; so that it was fine warm summer weather when at last Donald, Lizzie, and baby set off in a vehicle known to the neighbours as "Anderson's shanderadan," a queer nondescript carriage, with a hood which could be made to cover the front seat, and a long kind of waggonette seat behind, into which Mrs. Anderson put a feather bed and a mattress, for the accommodation of Clarice.