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A PAIR OF SHOES.
image036IT was about this time that Clarice became convinced that she could venture to move without bringing back pain and inflammation in her injured knee. Painful to a certain extent it must always be, for it was twisted and distorted in a dreadful manner; but the acute agony which used to follow upon every attempt at movement seemed to have worn itself out. Clarice tried several experiments when she was quite alone, and succeeded beyond her hopes. She began to wonder if she could not contrive some kind of support, which would make walking possible. The pain in her back she believed to be only the consequence of lying so much in the same position, and therefore determined "not to mind it."
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IT was about this time that Clarice became convinced that she could venture to move without bringing back pain and inflammation in her injured knee. Painful to a certain extent it must always be, for it was twisted and distorted in a dreadful manner; but the acute agony which used to follow upon every attempt at movement seemed to have worn itself out. Clarice tried several experiments when she was quite alone, and succeeded beyond her hopes. She began to wonder if she could not contrive some kind of support, which would make walking possible. The pain in her back she believed to be only the consequence of lying so much in the same position, and therefore determined "not to mind it."
In writing the story of Clarice Egerton, I find that I am not giving any true idea of the amount of suffering which she bore so quietly. But really she said so little about it, and gave way to it so little, that the fact that she was a great and constant sufferer was never brought much before even her own family. To Guy alone did she ever speak of it, after her mother's death; and he always said that he only knew of her suffering because she sometimes told him how pleasant it was to be free from pain again.
Having considered the matter thoroughly, Clarice took Guy into her confidence. They were alone together one evening, and she said to him,—
"Guy, I want you to help me a little. You are such a clever carpenter, do you think you could make me a crutch, like this—" showing him a tiny model made of morsels of stick tied together—"and a common crutch for the other side? For, do you know, I think I could manage to walk if I had them?"
"My dear Clarice, it would hurt you terribly!"
"Not much; and it won't do any real harm. It would be such a comfort if I could do more for myself, Guy; Helen has so much to do."
"If you really wish to try, I think I could make this. I see your idea; you want a flat place for your knee to lie on, and it must be soft. Don't you think it will be very heavy?"
"I'm afraid it will; but after a time, I may be able to do without it. I could not at first. Don't tell any one, Guy; we will surprise them some fine day."
"Well, the first thing to be done is to measure you carefully. It must be exactly the right height, you know. Could you stand up, holding by the sofa?"
"Oh yes, I have done it every day lately, when you were all out of the way. The worst of it is, I have no shoes."
"Poor Clarice! The little pair you wore that dreadful day wouldn't be of much use now! Oh, what a day that was! It haunts me in my dreams even now."
"I don't recollect much after I fell. Look, Guy, don't I stand up gallantly? And, oh, how tall I feel! Kiss me; I want to be kissed without being stooped over."
Guy kissed her with tears in his eyes. "Clarice," he said, "you have the spirit of a hero!"
Then he got a bit of string and made his measurements carefully; and next day he lost no time in setting to work. The fact that for several days he covered the floor with chips and shavings, and that he and Clarice had great consultations about a queer-looking pillow, raised no suspicions, for Guy was often seized with a fit of inventing, and would work away at every spare moment over his models. He was as clever with his hands as with his head, and the crutch was not so very heavy after all. The whole way to E— did he walk to buy a pair of shoes for Clarice; and surely no shoes, since Goody Twoshoes' time, ever gave such pleasure.
The first time Clarice crossed the room on her crutches, she very nearly fainted, so great was her nervousness. But perseverance does wonders—"use lessens marvel." And after a few trials, she could use them cleverly, and was quite fearless.
Guy's pride and delight at seeing her once more able to get about (though in far different fashion from the dancing step which had so often led him into mischief in old times) were very great. He declared that the time had now come for letting the others into the secret.
Aymer, Helen, and Agnes, who were in the garden, were accordingly surprised to hear him calling out—
"Holloa, there! You are very late! Here is Clarice coming to look after you."
And there, indeed, in the doorway, stood Clarice, whom Agnes had never seen stand before! Her long black hair had fallen out of the net she usually wore, and, hanging over her shoulders, quite concealed the fact (of which, alas! they soon became aware) that long lying in an uneasy position had brought on a slight curvature of the spine; her cheeks were flushed with excitement, her eyes bright with amusement at their surprise.
Each one could see what a beautiful creature Clarice might have been! All hurried forward; Agnes, screaming with joy, would have thrown her arms round her, crutches and all, but that Guy caught her.
"Stop, stop, child! You'll have her down. You must only admire her at a distance until she gets a little steadier; but isn't it nice to see her off her sofa?"
"Oh, Clarice, Clarice," cried Helen, "how could you do it, when I know the pain every movement gives you! I'm afraid you will make your knee as bad as ever again."
"I don't think so, Helen. It's a long time now since there was any inflammation; it is only twisted and stiff; and I did so long to try. See how well I get along; is it not a graceful movement? Now I can do so much more, Nelly."
"You do enough. Oh, Clarice, I should be so glad, if I wasn't so frightened."
"But don't cry, Nell."
"I must. Oh dear, I can't help it, though I know it is foolish. But when I remember how you were always the quickest and the most daring of us—and now—"
"Too daring, I'm afraid. Don't think of that, Helen; think instead how long I've been lying there, and how pleasant it is to me to be on my feet again. Aymer, you haven't even wished me joy."
Aymer kissed her, taking up a great handful of her abundant hair, and giving it a gentle pull.
"Here's papa!" said Agnes, suddenly. "Let us see if he will know Clarice."
Mr. Egerton came slowly towards the house, raised his eyes, and found himself face to face with Clarice. He started, and after an evident struggle for composure, said,—
"How did this—when did you get better, Clarice? Would none of you take the trouble of telling me?" he added, sadly.
"Oh, papa, they none of them knew except Guy, until this evening. He helped me, and made these crutches. But indeed, papa, I should have told you, if I had thought you cared."
He looked at her earnestly for a moment, and then said,—
"Just so. Don't hurt yourself, Clarice. If you were to bring back inflammation, it might cost you your life. I should advise your standing but little at first."
"I will remember, papa. I shall go and lie down now, for I am tired."
She went in and lay down, tenderly aided by brothers and sisters, and, to her surprise, watched in silence by her father.
She could not get his words and look out of her head. What did he mean? Was it possible that his heart sometimes yearned for a little affection from his children—that he felt lonely and sad? But then, how could they be expected to feel affection for him? He had so completely neglected them all their lives, that Lizzie had once said, laughing, that until she married, he had never made up his mind which was Lizzie and which Helen!
"And I don't see how we could care for him," Clarice said to herself; but there was an uneasy feeling all the time. "He looked so sad," she thought, "that I cannot help pitying him. We are so happy together; he is so lonely. Mother was more to him than he thought. Yet after all, it is his own doing."
But Clarice had read her Bible too well for that to satisfy her. Words kept coming into her head all the evening.
"Forgive, and ye shall be forgiven.""Be ye kind one to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ's sake hath forgiven you.""If ye love those which love you, what thanks have ye?""Children, obey your parents in the Lord."
These thoughts made her so silent that Helen, who was helping her to undress, said, "I know you are in pain, Clarice; you have hurt yourself."
"No, indeed. I am only thinking of papa. How he did look at me to-day."
"Because you are like his sister, you know."
"Yes; but he seemed hurt. Perhaps we forget him too much, Helen. He must be very lonely without mother."
"Now, Clarice! He never seemed to know when she spoke to him! And as to us, we might all go to New Zealand to-morrow, and I don't think he would miss us, unless Katty forgot to give him his meals."
"I'm not so sure of that. I can't help fancying that he thinks more about us now."
"May be so; but I have enough to do without thinking of him. He chose that kind of life, so no doubt he likes it. Are you comfortable now, dear? Take baby then. Good-night, Clarice."
Clarice lay thinking. "Yes, Helen has more than enough to do; but there is very little that I can do. Perhaps I ought to try to get nearer to him if he will let me; I am sure he is lonely and unhappy. I won't think any more about his neglect of us, but only that he is lonely and sad, cast off by his own people, a stranger to his children, growing old, all alone; and, I'm afraid—"
But she did not pursue that thought. If she had, it would stand thus: "Afraid that in losing his wealth and worldly position, he had lost his all."
Next morning, she ventured to get up and dress before Helen came to her. Baby lay in bed, staring round-eyed at her unwonted proceedings; but by the time Helen came, both she and baby were dressed.
"Now, Helen, see all the trouble I shall spare you. Is not this worth a little pain?"
"Indeed it is not! I shall never forgive you, Clarice, if you hurt yourself to help me."
"It does not injure me; and the longer I put it off, the worse the pain will be. Now I shall hop gracefully out into the parlour; but you must carry baby."
Her appearance was greeted with loud applause by Guy and Agnes; but an attempt to sit at the breakfast table was unsuccessful. She got quite faint from the pain in her back, and was obliged to lie down.
After a time, Mr. Egerton came in.
Clarice looked up at him as he passed, and said, "Papa, I dressed myself and baby without help, and came in here on my crutches. Is not that a good thing?"
He paused, as if not quite certain whether he was pleased or the reverse, but meeting her timid, gentle eyes, he half smiled and said,—
"Very good; but take care. 'Festina lente.'"
"Not much of a conversation," thought Clarice; "but it will do for a beginning."
"Why, I declare," cried Helen, "there's the postman!"
"The postman!" every one exclaimed at once.
Clarice felt quite sick with excitement. She had waited very patiently; but now, if that postman had not brought her a letter from Villiers, it would be too much.
Guy went to the door, and returned quickly.
Mr. Egerton, naturally enough, held out his hand for the letter.
"It is not for you, sir. It's for Clarice, 'Miss Clarice Egerton,' quite plain; but who wrote it, I can't imagine."
"I know; oh, I know! Give it to me quickly."
She tore it open and glanced through it. Then she let it fall, and threw her arms round Guy, who had knelt beside her to look at the letter.
"Guy," she sobbed out, "it has come! You have got what we asked for. I knew we should, if we had patience. But, oh, what shall I do without you?"
"Clarice dear, what do you mean? I don't understand it at all."
Clarice calmed herself by a great effort. "I'll read it to you all," she said. "It is from Villiers."
"What made him write to you?" said Mr. Egerton, who was standing by the head of her couch.
"Because he promised to get a situation for Guy; and he says he has done it."
"Did you ask him to do so?"
"I did. Was it wrong, papa? I did not think it could be."
"There was nothing wrong in it. What does he say?"
Clarice coloured. "When I said I would read it, papa, I did not remember that you were in the room; perhaps you would rather read it to yourself."
"No; read it. The worst was said and done before you were born, child; I'm past feeling it now."
And Clarice read:
"Egerton Highfield."MY DEAR CLARICE,"I hope you have never doubted that I remembered my promise; but if you have, you will now feel ashamed of yourself, and serve you right."When I got home, I spoke to Sir Aymer at once, and we had no end of a row; but I did not let him silence me until I had said my say, and told him that he ought to do something for you all. However, he won't; and was he not angry! But I was not going to be beaten, so I got my mother to interest herself in it, which she did, on one condition. I shall tell you what that was presently."She has found something that perhaps may do. There is an old gentleman in London who was once a famous surgeon, and he is very rich and clever, a great reader, and as learned as—I don't know who! Well, some years ago he became quite blind, and he likes to be read to all day long and to dictate letters and, I believe, books, to his secretary. He has neither wife nor child, nor any relative but a nephew, who spends a good deal of time with him, but never in the morning, as he is in a government office. So he always has a secretary, who comes to him every day at ten o'clock and stays till three, and who must come again in the evening if the nephew has other engagements."Now, I must tell you plainly that Dr. Majoribanks is a great oddity, and never takes the least notice of his secretary except whilst they are actually busy together. He wants one now, who must read French and German; and I am sure Guy would suit him; but I don't feel so sure that he will suit Guy, for I suspect he is not over pleasant, though he does not come up to Sir Aymer. But if he does not like to remain, my mother says that Dr. Majoribanks will get him something else to do, for he is an old friend of hers, and he has promised to do so. He will give a hundred and fifty pounds a year, but he will not have his secretary to live in his house—only to come when wanted; so that this is not as good a salary as it sounds. But it is the best thing I can hear of, dear Clarice. I wish sincerely it was better, but, you see, with Sir Aymer against me I can do so little."My mother's condition is that I am to obey Sir Aymer, and not visit you, nor write to you until I am of age. He has a right to control me until then; but it is only three years now, and then I shall look you up. Until then I must say good-bye to you all, my dear cousins, for I know Clarice would not let me disobey, even if I wished; and really mamma has been very kind."I send a little present for Guy, to help to fit him out if he accepts, and I enclose Dr. Majoribanks's address. Guy is to write to him at once, and go to him without delay, if he decides on going. Mamma joins me in this present, and do not be annoyed with me for sending it. Sir Aymer is a hard-hearted old—but there, I know how you will look if I abuse him. Good-bye, dear Clarice, but not for very long. Don't forget me—I shall never forget you. I did not know how good one may learn to be till I knew you."Your affectionate cousin,"VILLIERS A. EGERTON."
The present proved to be a Post-office order for twenty pounds.
"Oh, Clarice!" Guy exclaimed. "I owe this to you. I have been longing for it; and yet now that it has come, I don't know how to leave you all."
Clarice stroked his cheek and his curly dark hair; she dared not trust her voice to answer him.
Aymer said, "How kind of Villiers! It's a great thing for us all, Guy. I wish you joy, dear old fellow."
Helen stooped and kissed the top of his head, his face not being visible just then.
They had all forgotten their father's presence, until he said,—
"You none of you have the least idea to what a life of temptation and poverty Guy will go—if he goes."
"Poverty, sir!" exclaimed Aymer, startled out of his habit of never addressing his father. "A hundred and fifty pounds a year! Why, it is more than we all have to live on here."
"But how do we live? And how do we dress? And there is the garden and farm, and—and—"
He paused, and looked puzzled. The truth was, that he knew his children so little that he did not know how to speak to them.
"I could not make you understand if I talked to you for an hour," he said at last. "But between poverty here and poverty in London there is a great difference. Here, there is no one to spy upon our misery; no one whose wealth and prosperity make our lot the harder by contrast. Here, too, there is little or no temptation. There, every one you meet would be better off, better dressed, better educated than yourself, and your life would be one of great temptation. In your place, Guy, nothing should persuade me to go. But I do not forbid it. You are old enough to judge for yourself, and I have never interfered, and never will. Do as you like."
"I am glad, sir, that you don't forbid it. I am used to live poorly, and I'll try not to care for what others do. It would be cowardly to remain here, making the little there is less, when I can at least support myself; and as to temptation, it finds one everywhere, and God can keep me there as well as here."
"Oh, if you come to that!" said Mr. Egerton, quietly, and somewhat contemptuously. And he walked out of the room, leaving them all free to consult about Guy's outfit. And they had a fight over it, but only because Guy would not lay out the whole twenty pounds on clothes at once.
"No, no," he said; "it must take me to London, and support me there for a time. I will not rob the beloved bag—it would break Clarice's heart. In spite of my father's doleful prophecies, I mean to do my part in filling that bag!"
Guy wrote to Dr. Majoribanks that evening, accepting the situation. His time at home was very short, which was, perhaps, as well. Lizzie came over to say good-bye, and gave him five pounds as her own and Donald's parting gift; so Guy felt quite rich. Clarice kept sorrow at bay by working hard, mending and making; there would be time enough to cry when he was gone. She got Aymer to go to E— to make a purchase on which her heart was set, a small Bible, as keepsake for Guy.
"Do read it often, Guy," she said; "and pray about what you read. Though we can't understand all of it, we can find out what is right."
"Clarice, I shall miss you sorely; you have been my guide."
"Oh, nonsense, Guy! How could I guide you? But you have a Guide, you know, a Friend from whom nothing but your own act can part you. He is strong, and He loves you. Oh, don't forget Him, Guy! Cling to Him, never forsake Him."
One who knew more would have urged the boy to attend church, to try to make acquaintance with some clergyman who would take an interest in him, to choose his companions carefully. But of all this, Clarice knew nothing. All she knew was that in her Bible she had found her Saviour; and the moment she began to speak of Him, the cloud of anxiety which had rested upon her face disappeared, and her words came freely. Of all worldly prudence, she was ignorant enough; but she knew and trusted Him; no one could hear her speak of Him, and fail to see that, to her, He was very real and very dear. All else that lay before her brother was hid from her eyes, but the Master, to whose service he was vowed, was clear enough.
"Don't think anything too small to ask Him about," she said; "until you really trust Him in all things, you will never know what He can be to you. Since I found that out, I have been so happy, Guy. When I am in pain, I pray, and He makes me able to be patient: when I get fretful, I pray, and He makes me able to hold my tongue: when I want to do things, He helps me. Indeed, He seems always near, and so strong and loving. Do try, dear Guy. I know you love Him, but try to never forget Him; and then you'll be safe and happy, whatever happens."
"Pray for me often, Clarice. Your prayers won this opening for me, and now they will be my safeguard. I'll try to remember, but I know you will."
Neither of the speakers knew that their father had come into the room while they were talking. He stood listening, with a doubtful look, and now went away softly.
Guy left home next day. His absence made a terrible blank in Clarice's life: all her natural strength and courage must have failed to support her; but something supported her. She grew paler and thinner, and was sometimes guilty of not hearing little Agnes's merry chatter; but she never complained, and was as gentle and as ready to help as ever. She little knew how closely she was being watched, nor how her stedfast, cheerful patience surprised and puzzled the watcher.
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GUY'S FRIEND, TOM PRICE.
image039A YEAR passed quietly away, bringing no change to Ballintra, except in baby Frank, who grew and prospered, the joy and the terror of Clarice's life. Her joy, in that he was the prettiest, merriest, most coaxing little fellow in the world: her terror, in that he was also the most enterprising, with an innate love of climbing and scrambling, which cost her many an uneasy moment.
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A YEAR passed quietly away, bringing no change to Ballintra, except in baby Frank, who grew and prospered, the joy and the terror of Clarice's life. Her joy, in that he was the prettiest, merriest, most coaxing little fellow in the world: her terror, in that he was also the most enterprising, with an innate love of climbing and scrambling, which cost her many an uneasy moment.
Clarice did not forget her resolution to endeavour to get nearer to her father; but, though she went on trying, she sometimes thought he was rather annoyed than pleased. Her power of moving about had increased a good deal, and she could get all over the house, even going up and down stairs without much difficulty; but there the improvement stopped.
For some time after his departure, Guy wrote constantly. He was paid regularly, and, by his own request, weekly; and by the most rigid economy, he succeeded in saving money, every shilling of which was sent home to be put in the "beloved bag." At about this time, however, he began to write less often, though always affectionately; yet Clarice somehow felt sure that he was neither so happy nor so hopeful as he had been. Happy, perhaps, is not the right word, for Guy had made no secret of his sense of loneliness, and of longing for the dear home faces; but his letters had indicated a mind at rest, and hope for the future. He had often praised his landlady, Mrs. Browne, yet now he spoke of leaving her house. Matters were in this state, when one morning Mr. Egerton received a letter from Mrs. Browne herself, which I shall copy, as it is rather a curiosity. The writer was a poor struggling widow, with a large family, and so her kind care for her young lodger is the more to be admired.
"HONOURED SIR,"Which it is but seldom I take pen in hand except to make out my small account or write to my Willy that's at sea. So honoured Sir excuse errors and so forth for I write because I do love that ansom boy and can't abare to see him led away which led away he will be. It is not because he must leave me Honoured Sir for one as never knew the flaviour of her lodgers tea can always fill her house respectable, though not to equall Mr. Egerton and that I will say."It is not his own doings but all along of a young gent that he has got to know which for all his fine clothes and uppish ways is not a real gent at all as Mr. Guy most truly is in all his ways. But this Mr. Price has begun to come here and take Mr. Guy out in the evenings and glad I was for the poor young man was fair pined for want of a little fun. But now I see through him and it was for his own bad ends, for sure I am he has borrowed money which pay he never will or my name's not Martha Brown Italian Warehouse."Mr. Guy scarce eats nor drinks but spares every penny, and yet can't pay his rent not that I am hurting for wait I can and will. He sighs and looks so sad and last night I came on him sudden and he was crying, but turned away his face being young and shamefaced. There is something wrong Honoured Sir and excuse the liberty I have atook but could I see the fine young gent go to ruin for want of a timely word and a bit of help, and sure I am he wants both this moment and I am Honoured Sir your servant to Command."MARTHA BROWNE."Don't let him know as I wrote if you please."
Mr. Egerton went to Clarice, and gave her the letter.
"Who is it from, papa?"
"The person with whom Guy lodges."
"Oh—is he ill?" cried Clarice, turning very white.
"No. Read it, and then you will know as much as I do."
Clarice read, and looked very anxious.
"What can be the matter?" she said.
"Surely it is plain enough! This young Price has led him into extravagance—or, more likely, the boy has become weary of his miserable existence, and is reckless."
"It is not that. I should know by his letters. Oh, if I could see him for five minutes! What will you do, papa?"
"I?—Nothing. What can I do or say? I know it was a hopeless experiment; he has tried it, and failed. Tell him to give it up, and come home."
"But, papa, do you never think what it will end in? If we all stay at home doing nothing, what is to become of us? Yet we are your children—do you not care, papa, if we beg or starve when you leave us?"
"Clarice, you forget yourself. I leave you the letter. Do as you think best."
When Aymer and Helen came in, they had a long and anxious talk. It was decided that Clarice should write to Guy, saying that she felt sure there was something amiss, and begging him not to conceal any trouble from those who loved him so tenderly. She even ventured to say that perhaps he wanted a little money—further she dared not go, as she might have betrayed Mrs. Browne.
Guy answered at once.
"MY DEAR CLARICE,"I have amused Mrs. Browne, and she has confessed her sin. I knew she was up to something, she was so supernaturally light-hearted and fussy. Dear little woman, she has really done me a service—though not in the way she intended. Your letter was such a cheer up to her, Clarice; and it will cheer you all to know that I have only been a young donkey—nothing worse. Now that you know anything, you had better know all."I told you how kind Tom Price has always been to me. I made his acquaintance at the place I go to for my dinner; lots of clerks dine there. While the rest only stared at my country looks and coat, Toni took me by the hand, and was really kind to me. But as far back as May, he borrowed a few shillings from me. His father is well off, and makes him an allowance besides his salary, so I fancied my money was quite safe. He went on borrowing, however, until he got even the money I had laid by to pay my rent; and now he has quarrelled with his father, and left home, so of course he cannot pay. He stays with me a good deal, and it makes my expenses mount up in the most wonderful manner; besides, he borrows every shilling I can lend him. I know it is foolish of me, but Price is the only friend I have made in London, and but for him I should be terribly lonely. He takes me sometimes to meet some friends of his, and we chat and play billiards a little. Latterly I generally go with him, because the poor fellow is inclined to take too much to drink, and I can keep him from doing it. When he goes home (which I am trying to persuade him to do), his father will perhaps pay me. I hope so, for I owe Mrs. Browne two months' rent, and must pay her before I leave her. I shall get cheaper lodgings if I can."You will all think me very silly about Tom; indeed my conduct looks silly, now that I have put it all down in black and white. But you do not know the misery of not having a soul to speak to, and that was my case; for Dr. M. never addresses a syllable to me except about my work. Oh, Clarice, I have never let myself write it, but if you knew what the loneliness is! What would I give for one of our cosy chats? I used to think I would get you to come and live with me, for you could get work here, and we could get on very well. But I am afraid I have proved myself unfit to have the care of you. There is a little room off mine where I could sleep. I shut my eyes and fancy you at the other side of the table—but this is all nonsense. The 'beloved bag' will not be the fatter for my savings until Tom pays me, or goes home and lets me begin to save again. Now you know all about it, and don't, any of you, make yourselves unhappy about me. Love to Aggie and a kiss to Frank. Good-bye, you three."Your loving brother,"GUY EGERTON."
When this letter reached Ballintra, the whole family were in the parlour, dinner being just over. Clarice read it, and silently gave it to Helen and Aymer.
Mr. Egerton looked up from his book and asked, "Have you heard from Guy?"
"Yes, papa. Should you like to read it?"
"If you have no objection."
He read it, and gave it back to her, saying slowly, "Poor boy!"
"Father," said Aymer, "tell us what you think. You have lived among men—you must be better able to judge than we can be."
"You know Guy better than I do. Is it certain that this is the whole truth?"
"Quite certain," they all declared, with one voice.
"And what then can I tell you more than the unhappy boy has told you himself?"
They looked at one another, puzzled.
At last Clarice said,—
"You think this Tom Price is a bad companion for him—is that it?"
Mr. Egerton sat for a few moments turning over the leaves of his book absently; at last he said,—
"You are all of you wonderfully innocent and ignorant, no doubt. I don't know that I am doing you a kindness in enlightening you. This Price is a drinker, an idler, and a gambler. Finding Guy's handsome face and well-sounding name of use to him, he is trying to make him such another as himself. He has begun with billiards, but he will not stop there. Guy does not seem to have learned the lesson as quickly as I should have expected; but I do not see what is to save him unless you can persuade him to come home. I almost fear he will refuse to do so. In which case, his utter ruin is only a matter of time."
"If you knew that this was likely, why did you not warn him?" said Aymer.
"I did warn you all. You would not believe me; but you know now that I was right. Persuade him to come home if you can,—and—"
"And what?" said Aymer, hotly. "Work hard and live poorly, without a hope or chance of better days!"
"Aymer, I see no good, no object to be gained by any of you, uneducated and unfriended, risking yourselves."
Again Aymer interrupted him. "How is it to end?" he asked, passionately. "If we all remain here, just living—what is to become of us, father?"
"When I am gone, my family must do something for you," Mr. Egerton answered, quickly. "For their own sakes, they must do it."
Then he got up and left the room.
Aymer was silent for a few moments, but then the bitterness of long years broke forth.
"So!" said he. "To save his pride, we are all to live as best we may, until at his death we are turned out of this place; and then we are to be indebted to his fine relatives for help to grub on in the same way somewhere else. I would sooner beg my bread from house to house!"
"And so would I!" said Helen.
"And we are to bring Guy home, to eat his heart out in idleness, or to go to the bad for want of hope! To live the life that even I, dull, plodding Aymer, feel to be hard lines sometimes. And this is all his knowledge can suggest, though he sneers at our ignorance—his own work!"
"Aymer," said Clarice, gently, "believe me, papa is more to be pitied than any one of us. Do not speak bitterly, for you will surely be sorry for it by-and-by. Let us think of Guy—for I agree with you, he must not come home."
"Well, Clarice, my opinion is this. Guy has done nothing wrong. He is our own Guy still, loving and trustworthy. If he had you with him, very little would Tom Price see of him after his work; he and you always had company enough, if you were together over a book. You are well able to get about now, and Frank is no longer a baby. We shall miss you, Clarice—you don't know how much—but you'll be the saving of Guy."
"That's exactly what I think," said Helen. "It seems as if things had come about on purpose to make it possible. What do you say, Clarice?"
"When I read this letter, I thought just as you do; then I put it away, because I fear I should be but a dull companion for him, when he has no other."
"You'll be just what he wants," said Aymer. "Some one to work for, and to care for, and to welcome him home, and read with him. You'll go, won't you, Clarice?"
"If you really think this—and if papa consents."
Both brother and sister exclaimed at this, but Clarice was steady to her determination. Against his will she would not go.
Mr. Egerton, being told by Clarice that evening, made no objection. He only said,—
"You cannot go alone; and where is the money to come from?"
"We have a little laid by, and Aymer will go with me."
"Clarice, I am not trying to dissuade you, but think this over before you go. London will be very dreary to you, child. You will never get out, remember; and the musty little rooms over a provision shop will be a poor exchange for Ballintra, bad as this is."
"But, papa, do you think I should be of use to Guy?"
"You might be—yes, I think you might. He seemed very fond of you; and to have you there was his own idea, I remember."
"And I love him so much, papa, that even if London kills me, I shall think I have lived long enough, if I have done him good. I shall never be anything but a feeble creature, not good for much—but if I save Guy!" Her eyes filled with sudden tears.
Her father looked at her with a strange expression, and said,—
"Clarice, you are no fool. You know what you are going to. Aymer and Helen realise only what they see, or they would never let you go; but you are different; you do realise it. Are you really content to give up all that makes your life tolerable, for that boy's sake?"
"More than content," she answered, earnestly.
"I see it is so, indeed, but I don't understand it," he muttered.
"Oh, dear papa! Forgive me this once. How can you understand it when you shut your heart against the Love that left heaven for you?"
She was crying bitterly; and by the time she had dried her eyes and could see again, her father had left the room.
image040
image041
HOW THE BAG WAS EMPTIED.
image042WHEN Aymer returned from this, the first journey he had ever taken, he made Helen laugh (though she was in no laughing mood, for she missed Clarice unspeakably) by his description of Tom Price's face when he marched into Guy's room and found them at tea.
image042
WHEN Aymer returned from this, the first journey he had ever taken, he made Helen laugh (though she was in no laughing mood, for she missed Clarice unspeakably) by his description of Tom Price's face when he marched into Guy's room and found them at tea.
image043
HE FOUND THEM AT TEA.
Tom beat a hasty retreat, and reappeared no more. For a long time he was unwearied in trying to borrow money; but Guy had had his lesson and was hard-hearted now, having Clarice to care for; so by degrees Tom dropped his acquaintance.
Clarice's first care was to get needlework from a London shop; this was easy, for she was really a beautiful worker.
Mrs. Browne was soon paid, and saving for the "beloved bag" begun again. Through her kind-hearted little landlady, Clarice became acquainted with Mrs. Ausley, the wife of the rector of the parish, and afterwards with Dr. Ausley, who soon took a great interest in the brother and sister.
This friendship proved the greatest possible benefit to the young Egertons; even to those at home, for everything was fully written to them, and Dr. Ausley even allowed some of his books to be sent for Helen and Aymer to read, and he kept Guy and Clarice fully provided with really good books. Moreover, Clarice contrived to get to church, and that was a most delightful event in her life. Her health did not suffer in the least from the change, and she could not doubt that her presence made Guy perfectly contented.
When nearly two years had passed, they went home for a holiday; and the happiness of that meeting was very great. The only familiar object that was no longer to be seen at Ballintra was the "beloved bag," for the contents had swelled so greatly that Aymer had placed the money in the bank at E— for greater safety.
Aymer said that the time would soon come for him and Guy to go to New Zealand, where they would work hard, get experience, and send home money enough to bring out the rest of the family. But soon after Guy and Clarice had returned to London, a most unlooked-for misfortune occurred—Mr. Egerton fell ill.
It was only a severe cold at first, but he would not allow Helen to take care of him. And before very long, he was so seriously ill that Aymer went to E— for old Dr. Garvey. For many weeks Mr. Egerton knew no one, and it seemed very doubtful that he would ever leave his bed alive. Then the fever left him, and there seemed to be no reason why he should not regain his usual health and strength. But he did not get better. There he lay, with great sad eyes looking out of a shadowy face, but he neither moved nor spoke of his own will.
Dr. Garvey said to Aymer, "Mr. Egerton, your father is an old man for his years, and I greatly fear that this is a general breaking up. It will be slow—it may go on for months. Give him good wine, strong beef-tea, and change of air, if he rallies a little. I will look in sometimes, and you can always send for me; but I don't think there is any use in my coming constantly."
He went away, and Helen wrung her hands in dismay.
"Good wine!" she said. "Two and sixpence or three shillings for every bottle! Beef-tea, with beef at tenpence a pound! Oh, Aymer!"
"The 'beloved bag' must do it, Helen. Don't cry, my dear; you can't turn your tears into beef-tea, afraid. Look you, Nell, it's a plain duty, so it must be done. We have the money; he is our father, and so we must not hold back. Guy and Clarice will say just the same."
So you see Clarice's words and example had not been thrown away. Indeed, when the two go together they are seldom lost—though the words without the example go astray sometimes.
Meantime, Mr. Egerton, silent always, watched and wondered. Had he been the most tender of fathers, he could not have been more carefully nursed. Helen never spared herself. The nourishing food and wine did him good, and he gained a little strength.
Helen was often aware that her father was watching her; at last, one day, he spoke.
"Helen, we cannot afford all this. I suppose we are in debt already?"
"Oh no! Aymer pays for everything."
"Aymer! What, out of that hoard that Clarice once spoke of?"
"Yes; and Guy and Clarice want you to go to them for a change, when you get better."
"I don't think I shall get better. Not your fault, Helen; you are doing all you can."
A day or two later, Aymer, finding the sad eyes fixed wistfully on him, said cheerily,—
"I think you are stronger to-day, sir."
"If I am not, I cannot blame you for it. Will you answer me one question truly."
"If I answer it at all, sir."
"Then tell me why you—all of you—spend your hard-earned money—which you will sorely want—on one to whom you owe nothing, and whom you have never pretended to love?"
Aymer reddened and hesitated. At last he said, bluntly, "We could not help doing so plain a duty as this."
"So you all spend your money, and Helen her time and strength, because it is your duty. I want to know who taught you that?"
"My mother—she began it; and surely she did hers. And then Clarice got us to read the Bible. It's all there, you know, sir."
"Boy," said Mr. Egerton, half angrily, "no one could do as you are doing merely because it is written in a book!"
"I'm no good at explaining, sir. And if you put yourself out, you'll be bad again."
Next day, Mr. Egerton asked Helen to write and tell Clarice that he wanted to see her.
Clarice was very reluctant to go.
"He used to puzzle Aymer and Helen with questions," she said, "when he found them reading the Bible or the books we send them; and Aymer told me he used to get quite unhappy, for the doubts suggested would keep coming back, until at last, he always went away at once, and would have no talk. And when we went home, I took him a present of that book of which Dr. Ausley thinks so highly, and he would not even open it. He said he had known the author, who was an enthusiast. What could I say to him? I should only do harm."
Still, when her father went on in the same way, not getting any better, and always begging of her to come home, she felt that she ought to go. Guy took her to Dublin, and Aymer met her in E— and accompanied her home.
Her father seemed pleased to see her; but as days passed, and he said nothing particular to her, she began to think that her fears had been unfounded; and before long she almost wished he would speak. He looked so sad; he seemed to be always thinking. At last one evening, when she was sitting at work in the window of his room, he suddenly said,—
"Clarice, come here. I want to ask you a question—you need not look so frightened, child. I suppose Aymer has been telling you how I once puzzled him with questions. Aymer is no genius; yet his simple answers puzzled me more than my questions puzzled him. But, Clarice, all that looks very small when one comes to lie where I lie now. Little discrepancies—little difficulties—what are they in the face of the great realities?"
"What great realities?" whispered Clarice, after waiting silently for some time.
"Death—Conscience—Eternity!" he answered. "In my worst days I never doubted that there is a Hereafter. I simply never thought of it. It was you, Clarice, long ago, set me thinking."
"I, papa?"
"Yes, a few words you said; but, far more, the fact that there is in your life a something—a motive-power, which cannot be a delusion. I am weak now, and I believe I am talking like a fool; but it has come to this, that I would give—oh, what would I not give?—to be able to believe. But I have cherished my vain doubts and questions, and I played with my idle speculations so long that all is mist. I cannot lay hold of anything."
"I am not sure that I understand you, papa."
"I am not sure that I understand myself," he answered, with a sad smile. "Since your namesake, my sister Clarice, died, I have never thought much about religion. I have gone on—dreaming—doing nothing, in fact. If conscience awoke for a moment, I silenced her. I laid the blame of my wasted life on—circumstances, on my father, on anything and any one but myself. From this state I have been awakened—how, I hardly know. I do see my sin—I do repent; but when I would take another step and cry for mercy—then all is mist. I have amused myself by seeing how the Christian religion can be explained away, until now when I turn to it in my bitter need, it eludes my grasp—I can see no certainty—no hope. It is all mist!"
"Papa, I once heard Dr. Ausley preach on the subject of doubts and difficulties of this kind, and I will tell you something of what he said. He began, if I remember rightly, by saying that until the history of our Lord and of His apostles was proved to be a fiction from beginning to end, the credulous people were those who try to account for it on natural grounds. I am not making it plain, papa—I wish I could."
"I understand; go on."
"Then there was St. Paul. He had everything to lose, and nothing to gain. He was wise, well-educated, and had reasoning powers beyond the common. Why did he believe? He said he saw the Lord—he must have known whether that was true or false. Do men throw away everything they value in life for the pleasure of being persecuted for telling a he?"
"Go on, child—go on."
"And those twelve men of a conquered and despised nation, unlearned and ignorant men, too—yet their teaching upset the religion of great Rome, and has gone on spreading ever since. But the thing that struck me most in what Dr. Ausley said, and you said something like it just now, was—'that every Christian life, however weak and faulty, is a miracle greater than any other. Because,' he said, 'here are sinful men, weak women, silly young people, tempted and tried, and yet going on somehow, living a life that is not only not easy, but actually against their very nature.'"
"I have felt that," Mr. Egerton said. "Clarice, I think my time is short. What had I better do?"
"Papa, would you not let Aymer go to E— and ask Mr. Monroe to come to see you?"
"No, no!" he answered. "Not that—not yet. I could not bear it."
The very thought of seeing a stranger agitated him so much that Clarice felt that she could not press it.
"Then let me read the Bible to you, papa."
"The miserable old doubts will come back."
"Oh no! For now you feel the want—you wish to believe it. Oh, dear papa, turn the wish into prayer! You are not vexed with me, papa?"
"No, not at all vexed. Come to-night and read to me. I am clearer at that time, I think, than any other. When Helen has left me, do you come."
"I will—gladly."
"And leave me now, child."
She had nearly reached the door when he called her back.
"Clarice, you tell me to pray. How can I pray when I cannot believe? It would be a mockery."
Clarice came back with her slow and painful step, and looking down tenderly at him she said,—
"I have read in a book I like so much, that there is a lesson to be learned from one of our Lord's miracles, which one does not see just at first. It is the healing of the withered hand. The man's hand was quite useless, perhaps he had not been able to move it for years. Our Lord said, 'Stretch forth thine hand.' Suppose the man had answered, 'I cannot—there is no power in it?' But he just obeyed, and the power was there. Whether the intention to obey brought the power, or the power came with the intention, no one can say."
She went away then, and this time he did not call her back.
After this Clarice read the Bible diligently to her father. At first she chose the portions she thought most likely to be useful, but after a few days he began to ask for this or that part, which he wished to hear. But he only listened in silence—he spoke to her no more. Every day he became more gentle and patient; more grateful to them all for the kindness and tenderness which he felt was so undeserved. But his natural reserve and his long habit of silence were not to be overcome now. Therefore it was a great happiness to Clarice, indeed to all of them, when he asked Aymer to invite the Rector of E— to visit him, which that gentleman did regularly from that time.
Time slipped by. Mr. Egerton made no rally. The hard-earned savings were melting away, in spite of Helen's economy. The "beloved bag" would soon be quite empty. Yet not even Aymer complained, though he often wondered sadly what he was to do when he should be left penniless with two young children to support, and Helen, homeless.
One day Mr. Egerton said to Clarice, "I want you to write a letter for me, my dear, and tell Aymer to come here, that he may hear what I say."
Clarice obeyed, and was soon ready to write.
Mr. Egerton's weak voice began:
"'My dear father.'
"Have you written that, Clarice?"
"Yes, papa."
"And, Aymer, you are attending? Go on now, my dear.
"'You may not care to read this letter; yet, as it comes from a dying man, from one who may be dead before you open it, do not refuse to do so. You loved me once, and I was ungrateful and disobedient. For all these long years I have never asked your pardon; but I do so now. I am slowly but surely passing away from this world—I trust, through the marvellous mercy of God in Christ, to a better. If I have any injury to forgive, I do it freely. Forgive me, dear father, and forget my long hardness against you."'I will not say more, lest you should think that I write only to ask you to befriend my children. No man ever had more reason than I have to thank God for good children; no man ever deserved them less."'And now, father, I say farewell, and God bless you!'
"I will try to sign it, Clarice."
"You are very weak to-day," she said, startled to see how difficult he found it to hold the pen.
"I am," he said; "I think I am much weaker. Aymer, is there anything in that to which you object?"
"Nothing, father; I think you have done quite right."
"I have not said anything about your future," Mr. Egerton said, in a low voice.
"And I hope you won't, sir. From your father I would not accept sixpence to keep us all out of the poorhouse!"
"You would not ask for it; and I cannot blame you, Aymer. Yet, I beseech you—little as I have deserved of you, don't deny me my only request—if they offer to help you, don't refuse it. I know what you were saving for, and I know how your money is being spent. I cannot help it—I cannot even wish you not to do what you feel to be right; but don't fancy that I don't feel it. All for me! And I never worked nor cared for one of you. And once for all, children," (Helen had come in with some soup for him), "once for all, let me speak. You four—you poor, neglected, overworked children—have been living proofs to me that religion is not all imagination, which have outweighed the belief, or unbelief, of a lifetime. Children, I cannot think that my blessing will avail much, yet I must bless you, and ask you all to forgive me. I have no excuse to offer, Aymer," he added, turning a wistful look upon his eldest son. "You must forgive me freely, if you can forgive at all."
"Father," said Aymer, with a sob, "I do—I do, indeed! And you'll forgive me. I was very disrespectful."
"I have nothing to forgive. Never man had such children. I dare to believe that these is forgiveness for me with God, as you can forgive. You and—your mother: she forgave me, too. My poor Elise—my poor Elise!"
He never spoke again; he passed away in quiet sleep, utterly worn out. Aymer posted the letter the next day, merely writing beneath his father's trembling signature, "My father died a few hours after dictating this letter."
No answer was received, but the letter was not sent bank torn in two.
Between the scanty remains of the "beloved bag" and what was realised by the sale of furniture and stock, enough money was raised to take Aymer out, alone, to New Zealand.
Guy undertook the care of the others, assisted, of course, by what Helen and Clarice could earn, until among them they could save enough for passage-money and outfit again.
Lizzie and Donald, however, begged to have Frank and Agnes left with them until that time should come. And it was so plainly the best plan for the children, that the rest consented, though the parting was a very hard matter.
As soon as all their affairs at Ballintra were arranged, the four Egertons went to London. Everything was soon ready for Aymer's departure; another day, and he would leave them.
Mrs. Browne had contrived to spare another bedroom rather than lose her lodgers, so Clarice was sitting in her old place in the little parlour sewing buttons on Aymer's shirts, and damaging their stiffness by crying over them, when the door opened, and some one came gently in. She did not look round, because she was trying to dry her eyes unperceived, when the new-comer said, laying a hand on her shoulder,—
"What, crying, Cousin Clarice? And won't you even look at me, after this long time that we have never met?"
"Why, Villiers! Is this really you? Oh, how glad I am to see you! But I'm afraid you ought not to be here."
"Why, Clarice?"
"Your grandfather!"
Villiers sat down beside her and took her hand in his own.
"Dear cousin," he said, "our poor grandfather is dead. You know about the letter that poor Uncle Guy sent him—I think it was in your writing. Well, when it came, he read it quietly enough; quite calmly, in fact, and told us,—
"'My younger son, Guy, is dead.'
"And though we thought he looked pale and ill, he never gave in a bit or made any further remark about it. But two days afterwards, he died quite suddenly—he was not ill for more than a few minutes, and we all believe that it was suppressed agitation—the unnatural strain it must have been—that killed him. I was with him, of course. He hardly spoke; but once, with a great effort, he made a few words plain.
"'Villiers, you'll find a letter in my desk—see to it.'
"And that letter, Clarice, contains an order on his bankers for one thousand pounds, and it is directed to Aymer."
"Oh, Villiers! And Aymer was to leave us to-morrow and go alone to Now Zealand. Now we can all go together, as we used to plan it."
Then she added, sorrowfully, "I think I am very hard-hearted, to rejoice over it, and never care for poor Sir Aymer. He wished to be kind at last, you see."
The others came in presently, and were told the news—good news, as they could not help feeling it to be.
Next day Lady Anne came to see them, and by her graceful tact, she actually induced Aymer to allow his cousin to make them all a present of their outfit and passage, so that their little capital might reach Now Zealand untouched. And then, taking Helen and Clarice with her in her carriage, she purchased such an outfit as they had never dreamed of. There was hardly room to move in Mrs. Browne's little rooms, as there was such a large number of boxes.
Aymer went "home," as they still called Ballintra, for the children; and Guy gave Dr. Majoribanks notice that he could not remain with him any longer. Dr. Majoribanks was terribly angry, and as much surprised at what he was pleased to term "young Egerton's ingratitude," as if he had invariably been kind and considerate to him, instead of having been a hard taskmaster to a most painstaking secretary.
Lady Anne took such a fancy to Clarice that she wanted to keep her, promising that she should be as her own daughter; but Clarice was not to be tempted; and the others raised nearly as great a disturbance as they had in old times, when Elise Anderson proposed to take Clarice home with her.
The rest may be imagined. A pretty, irregularly built house, all covered with flowers, stands on thriving sheep farm in New Zealand, and bears the name of Ballintra. It is not very long since the Egertons went out, but so far they have prospered greatly, and there is good reason to hope that their prosperity will be lasting. Sir Villiers Egerton has visited them twice, coming out in his steam yacht, the "Clarice," bringing them books and pictures, and everything which he thinks will add to their comfort.
A very happy household theirs is, and not the least cheerful and useful of the party is "young Egerton's lame sister," as the scattered neighbours call her. Yet she is still, and will always be, a crippled sufferer; but she holds by her old resolution: she does what she can. And any one can do that.
Yes—but what a changed world it would be, if every one did it!