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"And mind you tell Helen, with my love, that she's not to take it amiss that I sent yon basket along wi' ye, because truly Donald eats such a hantle of food, that I'd think it a shame letting him take a young housekeeper by surprise. And bring Clarice home wi' ye, Lizzie, lass, or I'll not promise ye a welcome from me and my good-man."
Whereon her good-man grunted loudly, and was of opinion that between himself and his wife, they had put the thing very well, and said all that was needful.
Ballintra, if not a place where money was to be made, was surely a very pretty place; and so Lizzie Anderson thought as she was driven up to the door. The waters of the lovely Slaney—the only river, save one, with which I am personally acquainted, that deserves the name of a blue river; the other being either the Tamar or the Tavy, in Devonshire, and I cannot remember which of these is brown and which blue,—the blue waters of the lovely Slaney were glancing and dimpling in the summer sun, and the steep lawn, which they both met and reflected, was of the most exquisite green. A few fine old trees, beech, both green and copper, shaded the house, and were dotted here and there over the lawn; and the hawthorn, which was late that year, was still in full blossom. The house was old-fashioned and irregular, much smothered in ivy, and altogether it was a very pretty spot.
At the sound of wheels, little Agnes ran to the door, peeped out, screamed with joy, and flew back into the parlour crying out,—
"Clarice, Clarice, here's Lizzie and Donald in the shanderadan, and Lizzie's baby in a scarlet shawl!"
For the bit of colour pleased the child's eye, used only to the black dresses of her sisters and herself; though when Agnes first put on her mourning, she had felt a little important, the frock being actually new, and not some one's dress cut down to suit her!
Lizzie, springing to the ground, carried her baby into the house. In the parlour, she found Clarice, with her baby beside her, and her face lighted up with joy and welcome.
"Oh, Lizzie, dear Liz," she exclaimed, "is that really you? I saw the horse's head, and wondered what could be coming. Aymer and Guy are in the fields, but Helen is only in the garden. Oh, Lizzie, show me your baby, and kiss me. I'm so glad you have come!"
The baby was unpacked from among his shawls and blankets, and the two infants were critically compared. The Egerton baby had black eyes, and the Anderson baby had blue, otherwise they were somewhat alike.
Agnes danced with glee, exclaiming, "I'm his aunt, Lizzie! Clarice says so. She says I'm just as much his aunt as Helen or herself."
"Very true, Aggie! But, stranger still, baby here is my baby's uncle, just as much as Aymer or Guy."
But this was too much for Agnes. She sat down and stared gravely at the two babies, uncle and nephew.
"I see Donald has gone round to the stable," said Lizzie. "Had I not better go out to the garden and call Helen, Clarice?"
"Oh, not you; you must be tired after your long drive; Agnes will go."
"I have not finished my lessons, Clarice," said the child, conscientiously.
"You must have a holiday, Aunt Agnes," Clarice answered, laughing. "Run now, my dear, and tell the boys too; but find Helen first, for she will not like to lose a moment of Lizzie's visit."
Agnes ran off, and Lizzie picked up the fallen book and said, "I didn't know that Agnes had begun lessons."
"I began to teach her a year ago. Mother was very glad to be spared the trouble, and we get on very well. She can read nicely, and write all the letters, both capital and small ones. She is very quick, I think."
"Ah, that big work-basket," said Lizzie; "dear mother! It brings her up before me. What have you in it, Clarice?"
"Oh, things to make and things to mend," said Clarice. "Helen and I keep it going; we like to have everything just as she had it."
She drew out a half-knitted blue stocking, and went on with it as she spoke. Then the sound of steps was heard, and Helen, Aymer, and Guy arrived in rapid succession. Donald came in from the yard. Many were the handshakings and kissings, Lizzie's baby coming in for a fair share of the latter. He was handed round to be admired, and was admired, though Guy hurt his sister's feelings by gravely proposing to prick a mark on his own brother's arm, lest he should be carried off by the Andersons in mistake.
Lizzie thought that Helen looked worn and overworked; and there was an anxious look in her eyes which made her like her mother. But part of poor Helen's present anxiety was her fear that Donald, when he saw the dinner, would feel that he could easily eat it all himself! A very unpleasant reflection for any housekeeper. However, her anxiety on that score did not last long, for when Donald was setting off with Aymer and Guy to look at the cows and sheep, Lizzie asked him to bring in the big basket out of the shanderadan.
"Mrs. Anderson thought it wouldn't do to take you by surprise, and expect you to have dinner enough for all, particularly as Donald has such an appetite. So she sent this basket—I don't know what there is in it, for she packed it herself."
"Everybody talks as if I was never done eating," said Donald Anderson, gravely; "and I don't think, myself, that I eat more than other people."
His wife knew that he was only pretending; but little Agnes, fancying that his feelings were really hurt, said softly,—
"You must want a great deal, Donald, because you're so dreadfully long!"
At which there was a general laugh, much to the speaker's confusion.
"Now that was very thoughtful of Mrs. Anderson," said Helen, as soon as she could speak. "I was in such a hobble, and longing to find out if Clarice could think of anything. For you must know, Liz, Clarice has all the brains for both of us. I have feet, and she has brains."
"Clarice has feet, too, only she has no shoes," remarked Agnes.
"I was puzzling my head over the same question, and could think of nothing but a huge rice pudding," Clarice answered, smiling at Helen; "and that would be light food for a hungry giant."
"Come along, boys," cried Donald, making for the door. "Even Clarice has a word to throw at me. I won't stay here another moment!"
"But, girls," exclaimed Lizzie, when the three young men were gone, "don't tell me that you have come to not having enough to eat! Oh, don't say that!"
"No, no, Liz there's always enough, I'm thankful to say; but it just happened I had no fresh meat to-day, except enough for papa. To-morrow is the day for the butcher's cart to come, and I took too little last time. It is hard to hit it off exactly. Last time I took too much, and some got bad!"
She was unpacking the basket as she spoke, and now said, with a laugh,—
"You'll have your rice pudding after all, Clarice! Look at this one, what a beauty it is! And chickens, as fat as they can well be—all ready roasted, too; and a huge ham—Aymer and Guy will shout when they see that, for they say no one cures such hams as Mrs. Anderson's—and a cheese, and the bottom of the basket filled with cakes and tarts. Look at Agnes, how she opens her eyes!"
"Ah, Mrs. Anderson loves to make presents," Lizzie said, with a sigh.
It was very sad to her to see how her sisters rejoiced over things to which she was so well used.
Old Katty was summoned to see the baby and his mother, and to assist in carrying off the provisions.
Agnes was made happy with a plump bun, on which she had silently fixed loving eyes, and in which she quickly fixed her little white teeth. Then the babies woke up and had to be fed; after which, they went to sleep in the same cradle, like the excellent babies they undoubtedly were, and left the sisters leisure for a comfortable chat.
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THAT BELOVED BAG!
image026"NOW then, girls," cried Lizzie, rocking the cradle softly, while the two other girls got each a piece of work to go on with; even Agnes produced a coarse blue sock, and knitted away woman-fully—"now then, girls, tell me everything; and first, how do you get on?""Wonderfully, Liz, just wonderfully! Of course, we miss her every day we live, poor Clarice most of all. But then we are always busy, and, somehow, we have got to have a way of looking forward that is a great help, and keeps us going."
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"NOW then, girls," cried Lizzie, rocking the cradle softly, while the two other girls got each a piece of work to go on with; even Agnes produced a coarse blue sock, and knitted away woman-fully—"now then, girls, tell me everything; and first, how do you get on?""Wonderfully, Liz, just wonderfully! Of course, we miss her every day we live, poor Clarice most of all. But then we are always busy, and, somehow, we have got to have a way of looking forward that is a great help, and keeps us going."
"That is Guy's doing," added Clarice. "He borrowed a book about New Zealand from Miles Murphy, and we read it in the evenings, and talk of our plans. And look, Liz, at the 'beloved bag,' as Guy calls it, look how fat it is!"
"What a grand bag!" said Lizzie. "But where does the money come from?"
"Helen and I, I think we wrote you word, got work from that shop in Dublin, and we earn three shillings a week, and sometimes four."
"Three shillings each, do you mean?"
"Oh no; between us. You know there is home work to be done, too—plenty of darning, eh, Nelly?"
Helen groaned.
"Aymer's stockings are more darn than stocking," she answered. "I suppose it is the digging, and all that."
"Still, we are saving money," said Clarice. "I'm bag-keeper; and I jingle it sometimes when Helen is low—listen, Nelly; isn't that a pleasant sound?"
"Aymer has been able to put by every shilling he gets from Mr. Pearson," Helen said, brightening up as Clarice smiled at her; "and that is really a good deal, you know."
"Mr. Anderson told me the other day," said Lizzie, "that the Government helps people to emigrate. If we only knew how to apply for it! Not now, of course, but when Aymer thinks of going."
"Perhaps some of papa's relatives would manage that for us," answered Clarice. "That would not be like asking them for money. But Aymer cannot go—we have quite settled that—until Agnes is old enough to manage here with me to see after things, so that Helen can go with him and Guy."
"And what will you do about papa?" asked Lizzie.
"I am sure he will not care. He will go when they send over money for us. We have not said anything to him yet, for he would forget it before the time came."
"Who knows how to get at his family?" inquired Lizzie. "I don't even know where they live."
"But I do," answered Clarice, "for mother wrote to them once, asking them to get Aymer and Guy into some school, and her letter was sent back, torn in two. But I saw the address. Sir Aymer Egerton, Bart., Egerton Highfield, Normanton."
"Very good, Clarice, my dear; but if Sir Aymer sends back all letters torn in two, I don't see much good in writing to him—do you?"
"We'll send Guy!"
"He can't tear him in two, certainly, however savage he may be," replied Helen. "But we must tell Lizzie about Guy. He put an advertisement in the Post-office window at Kilsteen, offering to make up books and to balance accounts for any one requiring his services, for two and sixpence each. And he has had five or six—which was it, Clarice? Six—to do. And though he had to have a pair of shoes out of it, poor fellow, all the rest went into the bag."
"And how did Guy learn to keep accounts?" asked Lizzie. "For I know it was one thing dear mother never could teach us."
"He studied arithmetic out of a book of papa's," answered Clarice. "There is nothing Guy cannot learn if he can only get a good book."
"Where is my father, by the way?" asked Lizzie. "I have not seen him."
"He's in the study," Helen told her.
"How is he? Does he seem sad—does he miss mother at all?"
"How can I tell? He never opens his mouth, except to eat; and indeed of late, he does not eat half enough. I declare, Lizzie, when I see how clever poor Guy is, and remember that papa could teach him all he wants to know, I get quite angry. Only yesterday, Guy asked him a question—something he and Clarice (who is just such another) were puzzling their heads over; and if you will believe me, papa did not even listen, and begged him not to interrupt him again."
"I remember when mother tried to get him to teach us," said Lizzie, "and he answered that 'he was unsuited to such elementary work, and that as the children were doomed to be mere boors, education would only make them discontented;' so she had to teach us herself."
"Guy only wants opportunity," said Clarice; "and we pray every day that he may get it."
Lizzie stared. To say your prayers every morning and evening, is one thing; to say that you want a particular thing, and mean to ask for it, is quite another.
"You pray about that, Clarice?" she said, doubtfully.
"I think she's always praying," said Helen, half fondly, half sadly; "and it seems to help her along wonderfully. I wish I were like that, Lizzie. I do get so fretted."
"You can always begin, Nelly," said Clarice, quietly.
She took her crimson-covered Bible from under her pillow, and opened it, finding what she wanted so easily that it was plain the book was no strange volume to her.
"'Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you. For every one that asketh, receiveth, and he that seeketh, findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened.' That means, I suppose, the kingdom of heaven shall be opened. The Lord Jesus is the door, you know. Then in another place He says, that if two or three agree together about a thing they ask for, it shall be done for them. So Guy and I have agreed to ask for this."
"Did you ever hear anything like that?" whispered Lizzie to Helen, while Clarice was putting away the little Bible. "I have read those words often enough, but never thought they meant that. Who taught her?"
"I don't know. She is always reading her Bible, when she has time. Clarice, Liz wants to know who taught you to pray."
"It is all in the Bible," Clarice answered, taking up her work again. "You just read, and do it the best way you can, and then you find out more and more."
"But the Bible is so difficult to understand, Clarice."
"Parts of it are difficult; and then, you know, we are very ignorant. But a good deal of it is very plain; and those are the very bits that concern us most. Now what I read just now is plain enough, and I think way is, to go and do that, and then read a bit more."
"And there are such pretty stories in it," cried little Agnes, eagerly. "About little Samuel, whose mother made him a little coat every year, and God spoke to him in the Tabernacle, and he said, 'Speak, Lord, for Thy servant heareth.' And poor Joseph that was put in the pit; and David with the sling that killed the big, enormous giant. I know David was like Guy. Oh, Clarice tells me lots of stories, and teaches me what they mean, too."
"What they mean? Why those are true histories, child, of things that really happened."
"Oh yes, they happened, but they have a meaning, too, like a—what is it, Clarice?—the sower, you know, and the vineyard; what is the word?"
"A parable."
"Yes, like a parable—that's it."
"But, Clarice, what do you mean by that? How have the Bible stories a meaning?" Lizzie asked.
"I don't know that I can tell you, Liz. When I am teaching Agnes, I try to make those stories into pictures of the Lord Jesus."
"But how? I cannot think how you do it. Samson, now—I don't see how Samson could be made into a picture of Him."
"Not of Him, but of something about Him. Samson overcame his enemies by dying. His great strength, too—Jesus is strong to save."
"And Joseph, Liz! He was sold, and then saved his bad brothers—just like Him!" cried Agnes.
"It is a great thing to have a turn for reading," said Lizzie, with grave admiration. "At least, it is a great thing for you, Clarice, for you must find the day very long sometimes. I must make Donald get books from E— when you are at our place."
"At your place!" exclaimed Clarice.
"There! I was to have waited for Donald, and now I've let it out! He won't mind, though. You must know, girls, it fretted me dreadfully to know how you were all slaving and sparing, in the hope of giving the boys (who are my brothers as much as yours) a chance of bettering themselves by-and-by. And I, the eldest of you, living in ease and plenty, and yet not able to do a thing to help. For you know Donald has nothing of his own yet—it is all Mr. Anderson's. Then that kind, good Mrs. Anderson saw how it fretted me, and we thought of a plan by which we can help; and it will be so good for Clarice to have plenty of milk and fruit and everything. They both wish it—Mr. and Mrs. Anderson and all—and Donald and I can take her home to-night—that's why we brought the shanderadan—if you agree to it."
"Agree to what?" said Helen. "For Clarice to go for a visit to you?"
"Not for a visit, but to be like a daughter to the old people—to live always with us. We shall never let her want for anything, nor be a burden on any of you again."
Poor Clarice shivered at the word burden, but she said nothing, for she know that Lizzie did not mean to hurt her. She was always afraid that she gave a great deal of trouble, and she had no idea how useful she was; so she held her tongue and tried to feel grateful.
But Helen did not hold her tongue, and, to judge by the use she made of it, she did not even try to be grateful.
"Take Clarice away from us for good and all!" she cried. "Why, Lizzie, I was going to say that I did not see how I could spare her even for a few days! If you were living here, you would know better—indeed, I think you might know better even now. Why, Clarice takes care of baby night and day. What could I do if I had him on my hands always? And she knits every sock and stocking that we all wear—except what Agnes can do—and darns them too. And she does a great deal more than half the work for the shop, and helps Guy with his books. Guy would go out of his mind if he had not Clarice to talk to. And she never forgets anything, but puts Katty and me in mind of all the different things, even to the winding of the clock, which ran down regularly every week until I asked her to remind me of it. And she's the only one of the family that can get papa to answer a question. Why, if Clarice and her Bible, and—well, just her precious self—were gone out of this house for good, I'd take to my bed in a week!"
She stopped, and looked at her sister's pale thin face. "Perhaps, though, it would be for her good. Oh Clarice, Clarice, must I let you go?"
Before any one could answer, the door burst open, and in rushed Guy, his face crimson, closely followed by Aymer with little Agnes in his arms. In the background appeared the tall form of Donald Anderson, an amused smile upon his face. To account for their sudden appearance, I must tell you that Agnes had no sooner perceived what Lizzie meant than, in great dismay, she had ran out to inform her brothers, and to bring them to the rescue. She found them close to the house, looking at the early potato crop.
A hurried rush to the parlour ensued. Guy made but one step to Clarice's side and caught her by the hand, unable to speak, he had run so fast.
"What's all this?" Aymer began, somewhat roughly. "Helen, what does the child mean? She says you are all planning for Clarice to live with Lizzie and Donald."
"No, no, not planning it. Only Lizzie thought it would be a help to us all. But I have told her that, for my part, I could not possibly get on without her; and yet, when I looked at her, I thought perhaps we are letting her do too much. You see, boys, they thought it impossible that she could do anything—and perhaps she ought not."
Aymer looked puzzled. Guy said nothing, but tightened his grasp of his sister's hand. Agnes set up such a howl that the two babies very nearly jumped out of the cradle, and poor Lizzie looked ready to cry at the reception her well-meant proposal had met with. But by this time, Clarice had conquered the choking sensation which the sudden fright had given her, and was able to speak for herself.
"Lizzie dear, you are very, very kind! And if I were really useless at home, it would be right for me to go with you; and I know how kind and good every one of you would be to me. But, you see, I am of some use, and so—oh, Lizzie, to tell you the plain truth, it would just break my heart to leave them, useful or useless."
"And what should we do without you, Clarice?" said Aymer—silent Aymer—who seldom put ten words together. "Why, Liz, when we are tired out in the evening, you don't know the rest it is to have Clarice read to us—bits of books that she searches out during the day—books that I am sure I should never open but for her. Home would be very dreary without Clarice."
"And what should I do?" said Guy, with a half sob. "You don't want to go, Clarice, do you?"
"Want to go! If you were all as anxious to get rid of me as you are to keep me, I might go—though even then I'm afraid I should beg to stay. But it was a very kind thought of yours, Lizzie, and of all of you; and please, dear, don't be vexed about it."
Lizzie went over and kissed her.
"You're the dearest—I don't wonder they don't want to lose you. But indeed, boys, I mean it kindly. I never for a moment imagined that poor Clarice, who can't move hand or foot, as one may say, could be of any use; and even now I cannot think how she manages it!"
"Oh, just do the best I can," said Clarice, smiling; "and it is not very much after all. They are all so fond of me that they think I help them; and I do remember things. Lying here always, that is easy, you know."
"Indeed I don't know it," Helen answered. "What I do know is this, that most people who suffered all the pain you have, would say that they had enough to think of without helping others."
"But being busy helps me to bear the pain," said Clarice, simply. "Now, Agnes, you little silly, stop crying. Helen dear, it is almost two o'clock."
So Lizzie Anderson and her husband went home without Clarice, and filled with wonder, in which the old couple were not slow to share, as to how so weak and suffering a creature managed to make herself necessary to everybody in the house.
Yet her plan was a simple one. She thought of her sufferings as little as possible, and talked of them not at all. For the rest, she looked about, not to see what she ought to do, must do, or could be expected to do, but what she could do. And having seen it, she did it. Very simple; but what a changed world would this be if even every woman in it deserved the words,—
"She hath done what she could!"
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EGERTON HIGHFIELD AGAIN.
image029LET us pay another visit, this fine June weather, to the terrace at Egerton Highfield, and see who walks there now, and how that amiable old gentleman, Sir Aymer, is getting on.It is evening—at least, it is six o'clock, but the sun is still high in the heavens, and the west terrace lies bathed in a glow of warmth and light.
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LET us pay another visit, this fine June weather, to the terrace at Egerton Highfield, and see who walks there now, and how that amiable old gentleman, Sir Aymer, is getting on.It is evening—at least, it is six o'clock, but the sun is still high in the heavens, and the west terrace lies bathed in a glow of warmth and light.
A lady is walking there alone—a small, delicate-looking woman dressed in black, with wonderful cobwebby old lace round her slender throat and wrists, and covering her still dark hair. She wears no speck of colour to relieve the blackness of her rich silk gown or the whiteness of her plain, but pleasant face. This is Lady Anne Egerton, the widow of Sir Aymer's eldest son, and the mother of the heir of Egerton Highfield. She had been a very happy woman during her husband's life, but his death had left her entirely dependent upon Sir Aymer (for she had no fortune of her own); and that her lot thenceforth was not a pleasant one, I think I need scarcely tell you.
She had but one child, a boy, who was about a year older than his unknown cousin Guy. She had had elder children, but they had all died in infancy. Her son, who was named Villiers, was a fine boy, and as like my poor Guy at Ballintra as if they had been twin-brothers; which of course implies that he was very like what his uncle Guy had been at that age; and Sir Aymer's doubtful affection for his heir was not increased by this likeness. Sir Aymer had loved his son Guy as much as a selfish, tyrannical man can be said to love any one; and the very pain it had given him to cast him out of his heart made it disagreeable to be reminded of him perpetually.
Villiers Egerton was a spirited lad, full of promise, clever, manly and affectionate; but it must be confessed that he chafed sorely against his grandfather's unloving despotism. He had now just left Eton, and wanted very much to go at once to college, but Sir Aymer forbad it, saying that he was too young. Then Villiers asked leave to travel, but Sir Aymer would not hear of that, though Lady Anne proposed to go with her son. He desired the boy (as he always called Villiers, to his secret wrath) to remain quietly at home, until it was, in his opinion, time for him to go to Oxford. Against this long residence under the same roof with his grandfather, Villiers chafed sadly, and Lady Anne's gentle face was clouded by anxiety, for every day she feared that an actual quarrel would take place between these two.
Suddenly the concealed door which I have before described, swung open, and Villiers came out, looking flushed and harassed. He had a letter in his hand, and was dressed as if for riding.
"Why, my boy, I thought you were miles away by this time! What has delayed you?"
"I shall not go at all, mamma. Sir Aymer had desired them not to take out any horse to-day without going to him about it!"
"Now, I wonder why?"
"Oh, for no reason, mamma dear, but because he wants to force me to ask leave when I go out to ride. I won't do that—so I shall give up the idea of riding for the present. It would only lead to words, for then he wants to know exactly where I am going; and if I change my mind, and go somewhere else, he suspects a hundred bad reasons for it. But look here, mamma, I have just had a letter from Eustace," (one of Lady Anne's nephews, who had left Eton a little time before Villiers), "and he and one or two others are going for a walking tour in Ireland. They mean to go to the Lakes of Killarney first, and then to the Giant's Causeway, and afterwards to Connemara; and they want me to go with them."
"And you want to go!" she answered, with a sigh. "I don't wonder at it, dear boy; but I do wonder sometimes if I shall ever see you for a month or so, quietly."
"Dear mother, I would do anything to make you happy—you know I would; but I don't think my presence here adds to your comfort. I know you are in a continual fright; and I don't wonder at it. Sir Aymer is really intolerable sometimes. I quite long to fling something at his head as he sits there, thinking of something unpleasant to say. If I were older, I suppose he would not be so bad; but that half-hour after dinner, when you are not there, is more than I can bear!"
"It is all bad enough," Lady Anne said, with a sigh. She had borne it patiently, for Villiers' sake, for many a year; and now he could not bear it, for her sake, for a few months!
"It is indeed! I don't know how you bear it; but positively, mamma, I can't! Last night, as soon as we were alone, he began to cross-examine me as to where I had been, and what I had been doing all day. I told him that I had been riding, and met Mr. Lowther and his daughters, who asked me to go home with them to lunch and play croquet, which I very gladly did; and, said I, 'Miss Gertrude Lowther is a very pretty girl.'
"Well, upon that, he burst forth in his best big bow-wow style—the Lowthers are not fit companions for me—Mr. Lowther is only an iron-master—the girls designing flirts, every one of them; and finally, he was sorry to see that I had a taste for low company. I assured him that the Miss Lowthers are very nice girls, highly educated; upon which he remarked that patches of gilding only draw attention to the coarse grain of the wood! Did you ever hear such nonsense? Finally he said I must never go to Heather Hill again, and must cut the girls at once; which I simply refused to do."
"Did he say anything more?"
"Oh yes! A heap of nonsense about liking low company and marrying beneath me! As if at eighteen I was thinking of marrying any one."
"Oh dear! I wish he had not got that idea into his head. Yet you must be patient, Villiers, with your grandfather. He has had one terrible disappointment; and you see, unfortunately, you remind him of it constantly."
"I'm almost inclined to be glad of that," said Villiers, with a gay laugh. "It's only fair that I should aggravate him, when he aggravates me so much. But how do I manage it, mamma? Tell me, that I may enjoy the fun."
"The fun! You wicked boy, it is no fun!" said Lady Anne, glancing round as if half afraid to speak, lest some one should overbear her. "Shut that door, my dear."
Then, as she walked down the terrace with her boy at her side, she said in a low voice, "Did you ever hear of your uncle Guy?"
"My uncle? No, certainly I never did. An Egerton or a Villiers uncle? Egerton, I suppose; for now I remember Rowe, the old keeper, who is pensioned off, you know, telling me I was the image of Mr. Guy; but I thought he was speaking of a brother of Sir Aymer. Rowe is so old, you know."
"Sir Aymer never had a brother. It was, no doubt, your uncle of whom Rowe spoke, for you really are as like him as ever you can be. But you must never speak of him, Villiers, remember that, nor let Sir Aymer know that I have done so."
"But tell me why? Of course I shall not speak of him, but you have filled me with curiosity."
"I will tell you about him, for perhaps it may help you to have patience with your grandfather when he lectures you on the subject of low marriages. Guy was the younger son, and his father's favourite. There was a sister too, poor Clarice—such a lovely creature! She and I were great friends. I knew them all from childhood. Guy was very clever, quite a genius, we used to think. Clarice was killed by a fall from her horse, and Guy was so ill from the shock, that he was sent abroad; and he would not come home again, though Sir Aymer was very angry about it. I rather think he must have had some difference with Sir Aymer before he went."
"I can quite believe that," put in Villiers.
"But I never knew for certain. He wrote accounts of curious antiquities and other things, for scientific journals, and he published a small volume of poems. I have been told that they are very fine, but I don't understand a word of them. I believe he spoke every language that ever was heard of. At last he came home, and then it was discovered that he was married."
"Well—and was it a low marriage?"
"My dear! She was the daughter of a man who kept a small inn, or public-house, in a wild, out of the way part of Germany."
"Oh, jolly! Oh, delicious!" laughed Villiers. "What would I not have given to see Sir Aymer's face!"
"You wicked boy! It was no joking matter, I can tell you. He turned poor Guy out of the house at once, and never has he spoken his name from that day."
"And what became of him?"
"He may be dead, for what I know; but he was alive when your dear father died, for he wrote to me, poor fellow! I have fancied once or twice since then, that he has written to his father, for Sir Aymer got a letter one day which put him into a terrible state of excitement, and he tore it in two without opening it, put it in a cover, and sent it back, but I did not see the address."
"Then you don't know where he lives?" asked Villiers.
"I am not even sure that he is still alive," was his mother's answer. She was not going to say that, if alive, Guy Egerton was in Ireland, when there was a chance of Villiers going thither.
"What an old Turk Sir Aymer is!" said Villiers, presently.
"Well, but my dear, the marriage was a very great mistake, to call it by no harsher name. Your father was under the impression that Guy had been in some way taken in, for he did not seem very fond of her, and he said she could neither read nor write."
Which was exactly the reverse of what Guy had said; but Lady Anne really believed that she was speaking the truth.
"But, for pity's sake, why should Sir Aymer conclude that because his son made a fool of himself, I should do the same? There never was any one less fond of low company than I am; and as to marrying beneath me, why, I am not that kind of fellow in the least," said Villiers drawing up his slight person, and looking very dignified.
Lady Anne turned away to conceal a smile.
"You are so like poor Guy that you never allow your grandfather to forget him, my love. Do try to have a little patience with him."
"Mamma, believe me, I shall have more patience with him when I am walking over Ireland with Eustace and all those fellows, than when—I say, here he comes! Now, I'll ask his leave; and do you back me up, like the very best and dearest mother that ever was."
"No, no!" said Lady Anne, hastily. "If it must be, let me manage it. Go into the house before he sees you, change your dress, and come back; bring your drawing things, and that unfinished sketch of the west front: go, now, if you want me to help you."
Villiers fled by the door through which he had appeared, and hastened to obey his mother's mysterious directions, wondering much what they might mean.
Sir Aymer came up the terrace stops and joined his daughter-in-law.
"Out still, Lady Anne?"
"Yes, it is such a lovely afternoon. I had a letter from my brother this morning, Sir Aymer. He wants Villiers to go to Deepdale for a time, and I should like him to go, if you don't mind. I wish him to know and to be liked by my own people."
If Lady Anne had really wished her son to go to Deepdale, she would never have made that speech. In fact, it looked rather as if she wished to provoke the old gentleman.
Sir Aymer fell into the trap, if trap it were, at once.
"I do not wish my heir to be made a Radical, Lady Anne! The Egertons have been Conservatives ever since—well, for many generations; and your brother is enough to corrupt any lad, particularly one who, like Villiers, has not an ounce of brains."
"I do not think his Eton course shows any lack of brains," Lady Anne replied, quietly, and then went on to urge several reasons why Villiers should go to Deepdale; among others, his intimacy with the Miss Lowthers.
The argument was still going on, when Villiers appeared, carrying a half-finished drawing, a box of water-colours, and a camp-stool; also he had a cigar in his mouth, and was attired in a loose kind of blouse, very suitable for painting in, if not very ornamental.
"And where may you be going, young gentleman?" asked Sir Aymer.
Villiers glanced at his mother for directions.
"Oh, are you going to colour that sketch?" she said. "Well, you won't have much time now, dear, so we will not delay you."
So, of course, Sir Aymer delayed him as long as he could. I would not venture to suggest a comparison between Sir Aymer Egerton and Paddy's celebrated pig on the road to Cork, so I will merely say that a long course of petty tyranny had taught Lady Anne the art of getting what she wanted by indirect means to perfection. She was not by nature an insincere woman, but she was weak, and when you bully a weak person continually, you drive them into crooked ways.
"Show me that drawing," said Sir Aymer. "Ha! Not bad, I dare say. If you were some penniless lad looking out for a livelihood, I dare say you could make something of your drawing; being what you are, it is simply so much time wasted."
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VILLIERS APPEARED, CARRYING A HALF-FINISHED DRAWING.
"Is this the drawing you promised to Miss Lowther?" asked Lady Anne.
"Yes," Villiers answered, unwillingly; and privately added, "You are making a mull, little lady."
Lady Anne went on without attending to his looks.
"You naughty boy! Answering your poor little mother so shortly, and all because I would not hear of you going tiring yourself to death with Eustace and all those men. Only fancy, Sir Aymer, this overgrown boy of mine wanting to set out on a walking tour with Eustace—my nephew, you know—in Ireland; as if Villiers were fit for such a trying performance!"
"He is as fit for it as any lad of his years," said Sir Aymer; "and it would be a great deal better for him than playing croquet with one Miss Lowther, and doing paintings for another; ay, or listening to Lord Villiers talking rank revolutionism every day after dinner. Go, by all means, boy; I'll give you a cheque—By the way, though, what part of Ireland are they going to?"
"Dublin," Villiers answered with alacrity, "and by train to Cork; walk to Killarney, back to Dublin, and by train to the north; walk to the Giant's Causeway, and finish by doing Connemara, if time and money permit."
"They shall permit in your case," said Sir Aymer. "Write and accept, and stay as long as you like. Dublin, Killarney, the Causeway, Connemara; yes, no danger. Lady Anne, you don't seem to be pleased, but you cannot tie a lad to your apron-strings all his life!"
"Yet I may be excused for wishing to see something of my only child, Sir Aymer. Now, if he went to Deepdale, I could go also."
Sir Aymer smiled, and walked away without answering. The gate of Cork (supposing Cork to have a gate) closed behind the deluded pig. Pig-driving is tiring work.
"There, Villiers, I have managed it for you. Oh, dear, how weary I am of it all!"
"Managed it for me, mamma! Why, you fought hard on the other side; I declare I thought it was all up with me!"
"Oh, go away, you literal-minded boy! I am going in to get some tea. An engagement with Sir Aymer tires me to death."
In a few days Villiers set out for Dublin, where he was to meet his cousin and the rest of the walking party.
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VILLIERS.
image033WHEN Villiers Egerton went to Ireland, nothing seemed less likely than that he would encounter his uncle or any of his cousins. The inhabitants of the county in which Ballintra is situated are wont to boast or to complain (according to their temper) that it is the "end of the world, and leads to nowhere;" nay, I have even heard it called an "after-thought," as if, Ireland being already finished, a little bit of material had been left, and added on to it, to make this county. For all that, it is well worth visiting, though no one visits it, because its beauties are less well known than those of its sister county, Wicklow, or the more distant Lakes of Killarney.
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WHEN Villiers Egerton went to Ireland, nothing seemed less likely than that he would encounter his uncle or any of his cousins. The inhabitants of the county in which Ballintra is situated are wont to boast or to complain (according to their temper) that it is the "end of the world, and leads to nowhere;" nay, I have even heard it called an "after-thought," as if, Ireland being already finished, a little bit of material had been left, and added on to it, to make this county. For all that, it is well worth visiting, though no one visits it, because its beauties are less well known than those of its sister county, Wicklow, or the more distant Lakes of Killarney.
Altogether nothing was less likely than that Villiers Egerton would find his way to the banks of the beautiful Slaney; so his grandfather did not caution him against turning his steps in that direction. But, as time went on, Killarney and the Causeway having been visited in turn, Eustace Villiers was summoned home by the illness of his father, and the merry little party broke up without having made the projected tour in Connemara.
The others all returned, but Villiers was in no hurry to follow their example. Home he was determined not to go until September brought the shooting season round again, when the presence of a few guests would make Egerton Highland more endurable. He had promised Eustace to go with him next year, if possible, to Connemara, so he would not go now in that direction. He had plenty of money, and as Sir Aymer did not know that Eustace's departure had broken up the party, Villiers wrote to tell his mother not to be uneasy if she did not hear from him for some time. And returning to Dublin, he set forth alone to wander through Wicklow, sketching, dawdling, poetising, and thoroughly enjoying himself.
He had a whole month to dispose of, and did not care to keep in the track of the general tourist, so he wandered far and wide, and presently wandered as far as to Newtownbarry, and thence determined to follow the course of the infant Slaney down to the sea, as the beauty of its banks and the scenery all along its course took his fancy greatly; all the more so, because he felt that he was finding it out for himself, instead of obeying guide or guide-books.
Oh, had Sir Aymer only known where his young heir was, and whither he was going, what a state of mind he would have been in!
The bright days of summer had an unusual effect upon Clarice Egerton this year. Perhaps, because Lizzie and Donald had seemed to think it possible to carry her off to their home in the shanderadan, the wish to get into the open air took possession of her; and Aymer and Guy carried her out on her couch, and placed her in the shade of a grand old beech tree not far from the house. How she enjoyed it! The sunlight, green grass, the blue river, the sky, with its ever-shifting cloud scenery!
It became quite a common thing for the boys to carry the invalid out after the early dinner; and if the day was warm and pleasant, she stayed there until evening. While Agnes was always at hand to run for her brothers if Clarice got tired, or the wind rose, or the baby cried too much, and required change of scene to soothe his feelings. It was new life to Clarice; until this summer the least movement had brought back inflammation and all the bad symptoms in her knee, but this year, she could bear the slight jolting quite well.
Here, under her favourite tree, with baby in her arms, and Agnes sitting beside her, she was enjoying herself one lovely evening, when she perceived some one coming up the lane from the river, a tall, slight young man; but where she lay, she could not see him very plainly.
"Who is that, Agnes? He seems to be coming directly towards us."
"I don't know him; why, it's Guy," was the child's contradictory answer.
Clarice raised herself to look—yes, it was Guy. He was now quite near.
"Why, how do you come to take us by surprise in this way, Guy? I thought you were in the garden, and here—"
The young man stopped short in his rapid approach and took off his hat. It was not Guy! How had she ever made such a mistake? When did Guy possess such a well-made, easy-fitting grey suit, or such a soft felt wideawake, or such a pair of boots, or such a dandy knapsack as this youth carried? Then she looked again at his face.
"Guy—surely it is Guy? What trick are you playing us, Master Guy?"
Then the new-comer spoke, and his voice ended her delusion. It was a pleasant voice too, but higher-pitched, sharper and more ringing than Guy's, and he spoke much faster, too.
"I fear I have startled you; and I am sure I am trespassing; but believe me it is an accident. I only saw this little girl, and came up from the river to ask her a question."
"It does not matter at all," Clarice answered, smiling. "You are in our lawn; but you need not mind that. What did you want to know?"
"I want to know if I am near any town or village where I can get something to eat and lodging for the night. I am quite a stranger, travelling for amusement, and to see the country; and I have followed the course of this river from Newtownbarry to-day, coming part of the way in a boat, or float, rather, which I borrowed at a cottage. I fancy I have come a long way."
"Newtownbarry! Why, you must be half dead, I think you must be starved! And there is no inn at Kilsteen, which is three miles off, or more; and E— is six miles off."
All the time she spoke, she kept looking at him, half wondering if he would not resolve himself into the familiar Guy, and confess that he was playing her a trick. Clarice was a little short-sighted, which added to her perplexity.
The stranger cast his hat upon the ground in pretended despair.
"Will you kindly dig a grave for me at once?" he said, gravely. "I may as well die here, for I shall never live to reach E—. I am dead-beat, and half-starved already."
"We can at least give you some dinner," said Clarice, laughing shyly. "Agnes dear, run and call Guy. I suppose he is somewhere about the garden; and go to Katty, and see what you can get to bring out here."
The child, whose blue eyes were full of astonishment, ran off at full speed, and Clarice continued:
"There's a chair there; won't you sit down? You must not think I am rude, but I cannot move."
Villiers Egerton (for of course you know that it was Villiers) felt that at last he was beginning to meet with adventures, which was all that was wanted to make his holiday perfect. He took off his knapsack, and let it fall beside his hat, brought forward the chair, and sat down, looking curiously at Clarice and the baby. What a lovely face, if it were only a little less pale and thin; but why on earth did it seem familiar to him?
"What did you call me just now?" he said. "You mistook me for some one, I think; and the curious thing is, that you remind me of some one."
"I thought you were my brother Guy. Indeed, I cannot quite get rid of the idea yet, until you speak; you have a different voice."
"Your brother Guy? Where have I heard that name before? It is not a common one."
"Not here; but we are not Irish."
"What is your brother's other name?" asked Villiers, thinking with pride that he had managed that question very nicely.
"Egerton," answered Clarice, and then uttered a very small scream, for the mysterious stranger sprang to his feet with a shout, and Clarice for one moment thought that she and the baby were lost!
"Egerton! Why, that's my name! I am Villiers Aymer Egerton."
Clarice forgot her shyness, and looked at him earnestly.
"You are very like Guy. My eldest brother's name is Aymer. I wonder—"
"I know who you are now," he interrupted, eagerly. "Why, this is as good as a play! You must be my uncle Guy's children. I never heard of him till the other day; but I remember now. Am I not right?"
"Yes; at least my father's name is Guy. His father is Sir Aymer Egerton, of Egerton Highfield; is that the same?"
"My venerated grandfather! Then you are my cousin; do shake hands with me! What's your name? It ought to be Clarice, for I know now who you are like: the picture at home of another Clarice Egerton."
"I am Clarice. You have guessed right, and I believe I was named after my father's only sister. Oh, I do wish Guy would come; this is so very strange."
"Yes, is it not? Ireland's the place for adventures, after all. Here am I, taking my solitary ramble in unknown regions, and I find a cousin lying under a big tree—quite promiscuous, as I may say."
"Three cousins, for you have found Agnes and baby too. Here comes Guy at last. Oh, Guy, only think what has happened: he came here quite by accident, and he is our cousin Villiers Egerton! And oh, Guy, what will papa say?"
Guy was the handsomer of the two, she thought, as they stood face to face, looking curiously at each other.
"He cannot be displeased, I think," Guy answered. "You are very welcome, Cousin Villiers. Agnes told me some one was here who was starving and tired; was that you?"
"It was, and is. Unless you give me food, and that quickly, I shall be tempted to take a bite out of that nice soft baby there, who, I am told, is another cousin."
"I'll go and speak to Katty," said Guy; "and I suppose I had better tell my father, Clarice?"
"Certainly, tell him at once. Tell Katty to bring the tray out here, Guy; and you bring the little table I always use, that he may dine here, for Helen and Aymer won't be home for half an hour yet. They crossed the river to go to the Pearsons."
"Helen! Another cousin, I suppose?" said Villiers. "Yes, and Aymer, and there is one more—Elise; but she is married. She is not here."
Villiers sat down again, and smiled genially at Clarice.
"How glad I am I saw that child! I'm sure I shall like you all; and I have so few cousins. And, except in this way, I suppose we should never have met."
"I suppose not; and I am afraid papa will not be pleased."
"Oh," said Villiers, easily, "I'll talk him over. He won't turn me out, will he? Because now that I have found you, I want to know you all. I'll stay with you, if you'll have me. But I suppose," he added quickly, "I ought to make my petition to Mrs. Egerton?"
"You mean my mother," Clarice said. "My mother is dead."
"Oh, Clarice, I am so sorry I said that. I ought to have noticed that you were in mourning. It was very thoughtless of me."
Meantime Guy had run to the house and hurried Katty's proceedings. Luckily, there was cold meat in the house, and plenty of bread, and Katty arranged a tray according to her own ideas of propriety, while Guy went and knocked at the study door.
No answer was made, and muttering, "I shall never get him to hear me," he went boldly in. Even then, though it was a rare thing for any one to enter the study, Mr. Egerton took no notice of him, though Guy fancied he saw him at once.
"Father, can you attend to me for a moment? Clarice is out on the lawn, and she sent for me because some one had come up from the river to ask his way; but before I reached her, they had found out that he is our cousin, Villiers Egerton."
"Villiers—Aymer's boy? What brings him here?"
"I don't know, sir. I fancy it is an accident."
"Ay, I suppose so. I wish he had not come."
His face flushed crimson as he glanced at Guy, whose dress and hands bore evident marks of his late labours in the garden.
"How old is he? About your age, I think."
"About that, I think. Won't you come and see him, sir?"
"Yes, I suppose I must. It is an unlucky chance."
He looked down at his own dusty well-worn clothes, and said, "Can you get me a clothes-brush, Guy?"
Guy could quite sympathise with his desire to appear as little shabby as might be. So he ran for a brush, and brushed his garments well, got him his hat, and set out with him to the beech tree. Mr. Egerton walked slowly, and looked so old, that Villiers never thought that this could be his uncle. Sir Aymer, though his hair was white, looked younger and more vigorous.
"Here is papa," Clarice said.
And somehow her evident nervousness infected Villiers, who was far less certain of a welcome than he had expected to be.
Mr. Egerton came up in silence.
Guy said, "This is Villiers, sir."
"Ay, I see him. You are—welcome to my house, Villiers, though truly I have not much to make you welcome to. Did you come—do you bring any message to me?"
"Oh no, Uncle Guy. I am wandering about just to amuse myself, and pass the time. My coming here was accidental."
"Ah, I thought so. You are weary and hungry; I daresay they can supply your wants. Where is—where is Helen?"
"She went over the river with Aymer, papa, for she wanted to speak to Mrs. Pearson; but Katty will bring out some dinner for my cousin. Here she comes."
Villiers opened his eyes a little as Katty, her gown of no particular colour, pinned up so as to display a petticoat of every colour of the rainbow—a perfect marvel of patches!—her battered sun-bonnet flapping wildly in the breeze, came up, followed by Agnes, who carried a small table.
Mr. Egerton caught the look.
"Yes," he said, "we can give you food, and perhaps a bed: I don't know; Helen will tell you. For the rest, you must be content with what your cousins here are used to. It is late, too late for you to go on to-day, I fear; but you can escape to-morrow."
He turned and walked away, leaving Villiers in great dismay.
"What does he mean, Cousin Clarice? Is he angry? Shall I go away as soon as I have eaten?"
"Oh no, no!" she cried, earnestly. "He does not mean that. He is mortified, because everything here is so unlike what you are used to,—but you don't mind that, do you? We will do our best to please you. Oh, do stay!"
Villiers was more flattered by her entreaties than he would have been, had he been aware that the thought in her mind was, "Surely he could help Guy; this may be the opportunity we have been waiting for."
Guy and Clarice proved excellent entertainers, and Villiers made a hearty meal, and chatted away as if he had known them all. Privately, he concluded that their mother must have been a lady, and that Guy had only been digging for his amusement.
A loud halloa! from the river made them all look that way; and there was the old flat-bottomed boat coming across with Helen and Aymer. Guy sprang down the hill to help Helen to land.
"Ah, the old boat," said Clarice. "It makes me think of the day I met with my accident; I've never been in her since."
"Was it an accident? I mean, is that why you cannot get off your sofa?" with a doubtful glance at the contrivance on which she lay.
"Yes, I have never been able to stand since."
"How dreadful!" Villiers said under his breath. "But you will soon be better, don't you think?"
"No, I think not. It is years ago now. I've nearly forgotten what it was like to be able to run about; I was just as old then as Agnes is now. Here they come. Helen is tired, I'm afraid."
Helen was only shy, a feeling from which Clarice was so free that she could not think what ailed her sister. Aymer looked glum; that she could partly understand, though she did not feel the same. But Villiers had so much ease of manner, such a pleasant, genial smile, that Helen was soon herself again, and even Aymer was charmed, prejudiced as he was against his father's family.
Villiers was cordially pressed to stay, and he stayed, nothing loth. He stayed long enough to perceive that neither Aymer nor Helen was as well-educated or as naturally polished as Guy and Clarice; to see Elise and her good farmer husband, and to know that his cousins' lives were by no means either easy or bright, except for the brightness of mutual love, and that shed round her by gentle Clarice's heaven-enlightened heart.
All this Villiers had eyes to see, and he reverenced and admired the poor crippled girl with all the warmth of his young heart. All his life long, Villiers Egerton will be the better for those few days at Ballintra. He wrote to tell his mother of his adventures, and in a short time, he received an answer.
Lady Anne had been so frightened that she had actually put off telling Sir Aymer until some expected visitors had arrived, when, as she said "he could not scold all day."
But he knew now, and Villiers was to go home without an hour's delay. Lady Anne begged him to obey, and mildly wondered how he could be so imprudent! Villiers put on a look which none of his cousins had seen before (he was sitting with Clarice and her small charge), and Clarice asked him what was wrong.
"My grandfather is enraged because I am here, and he orders me home as if I were a groom. But I shan't go until I like."
"Oh, Villiers, how we shall all miss you!"
"But I tell you I shan't go!"
"Ah, but you don't mean that. You have told me how afraid of him your mother is; and so you cannot leave her alone with him, if he is angry. It has been very pleasant—very; but you'll have to go now."
Villiers argued the matter for some time, but he knew he ought to go, so he suffered himself to be persuaded to do so.
"And now, Villiers, will you think hardly of me if I ask you to do something for me? You know us now; you see what our life is, and you will forgive me, won't you?"
"What can I do for you, Cousin Clarice? Indeed I will do it—anything—you cannot think how glad I shall be to do anything for you."
"But this is not a little thing, Villiers. You see what Guy is. He has had no teachers, no help of any kind, except when papa gave me a few lessons once. Yet you see he knows nearly as much as you do, though you have been at school so long."
"He knows an awful lot more, I assure you. I was always an idle fellow."
"He knows Latin, German, French, and Italian, he knows a little Greek, and—"
"And is a better mathematical scholar than I am, though that is what I know best."
"And with all that, Villiers, he can get nothing to do here except what any labourer could do as well, and that Post-office business, which is very little indeed. If you could find something for Guy to do,—some situation. Oh, Villiers, you don't know how he longs for this, though he never speaks of it."
"But what should you do without Guy?" was the answer.
Clarice burst into tears. "I don't know! But it would be for his good. If we can save money, we mean to emigrate. We hope to go to Now Zealand some day. You know this place is not ours, only held on a lease for papa's life. So we really want to make money; and I am sure Guy could earn more than he gets here."
"Of course he could! I'll do my best, Clarice. If I fail, don't blame me, for I promise you, I will do my best. And don't fancy I am forgetting it, if you don't hear at once; for you know I am not my own master."
Next day Villiers left them, and returned to Dublin. He sent them a big box before he left Ireland—a box so big that Aymer had to take the cart into E— for it; but no one grudged the time and trouble when that delightful box was unpacked.
For Helen there was an inlaid work-box, containing everything she could possibly want for needlework, and several cunning devices of which she did not know the use, and with which she sorely pinched her fingers in making experiments. For Aymer a box of carpenter's tools, really good ones. For Agnes a doll of surpassing beauty. For baby a rattle. While for Guy and Clarice there were books; a small edition of Sir Walter Scott's novels, some of Miss Edgeworth's, some of Dickens', and a few graver volumes, chosen as well as Villiers knew how. Never having read a story of any kind, it can hardly be imagined what these books were to the young Egertons.
Clarice read aloud to the rest every evening; and it never happened now that Aymer fell asleep—a thing not utterly unknown before. "Old Mortality" was the first they read; and the shouts of laughter over Cuddie Headrigg disturbed Mr. Egerton in his study, until he actually came out to ask what was the matter—an event which his children considered little short of a miracle.