Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
HE LIFTED THE CHILD IN HIS ARMS.
Clarice Egerton's Life Story
OR
WHAT SHE COULD.
BY ANNETTE M. LYSTER
AUTHOR OF
"Karl Krapp's Little Maidens," "The Rutherford Frown,"
etc.
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY;
56, PATERNOSTER ROW; 65, ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD;
AND 164, PICCADILLY.
CONTENTS.
CHAP.
[VIII. EGERTON HIGHFIELD AGAIN]
[XII. HOW THE BAG WAS EMPTIED]
Clarice Egerton's Life Story
OR
WHAT SHE COULD.
[CHAPTER I.]
SIR AYMER EGERTON.
THE stately homes of England! Well may the poet exclaim; and among these stately homes it would be hard to find one statelier than Egerton Highfield. Its grey old walls, close covered by a mantle of ivy, which clings even round the immense chimneys; its fine terrace, with broad steps leading down into a quaint old flower garden, with a huge fountain in the centre, and only separated by a wire fence and a wide ha-ha from an extensive deer park, through which winds one of the approaches to the house; the age and grandeur of the trees, and the extent of the massive buildings, all combine to make this a truly "stately home."
But perhaps the grandest-looking thing about it was its master, who, on the day on which I mean to introduce him to you, was walking up and down the terrace of which I have spoken. This terrace ran along the west side of the house, and was therefore a sheltered place even in March—though March, in Yorkshire, is not exactly a balmy month. Perhaps it was for this reason that Sir Aymer had gone to walk there, when he became too restless to remain indoors, and there he might be seen walking up and down, up and down with slow and measured tread, always turning at the same spot, always going at the same pace; always carrying his handsome old head well up, and keeping his arms folded across his broad chest.
He was a perfect picture to look at; for though his hair was turning grey, it was still thick and curly, and in his dark blue eyes age had not tamed the fire of youth, while his finely cut, haughty features, and pale, clear complexion were scarcely changed by the touch of time. Yes, he was very pleasant to look at; but, alas, that was all! For he was by no means pleasant to live with. An only child, he had become Sir Aymer Egerton while yet in his cradle; a weak, doting mother spoiled him utterly, and as she educated him at home, there was no school influence to undo the mischief. She died while he was still young, and he married soon afterwards.
He had two sons and one daughter, and soon after the birth of the latter, Lady Egerton died, literally worn out, poor lady, by his imperious temper. The elder boy, Aymer, was a fine, open-hearted creature, full of life and joy. He was sent to school early, which was lucky for him. The other son, Guy, was his father's special pride and darling. He was exceedingly like him in appearance, and, unfortunately, so far like him in disposition, that he had a most difficult temper, though not a passionate one. He was wonderfully clever, particularly as a linguist; and as his sister Clarice shared his tastes, he was well content to remain at home.
But Clarice did not live long to brighten his life, and her death was the more sad because it was the result of accident. She was riding with Guy and her father, when the horse took fright at the fall of a tree which some labourers were felling in the hedge at the roadside. Sir Aymer stopped to swear at the careless woodmen, and to dismiss them from his service on the spot; Guy rode after his sister. Her horse kept to the road.
He perceived that by crossing the fields, he could shorten the distance between them, if not get before her, which was his best chance of giving her effectual help. Some trees hid the road from him as he flew across the fields, but when he regained the road, he knew by the sound of the horse's feet that he had gained his object—he was in front of the runaway. A moment more, and the terrified horse came in sight. Alas, he was riderless!
Guy uttered a cry of horror, and rode back along the road, but when he reached his sister's side, she was dead. She had been killed on the spot.
Guy knelt beside her in silent agony, and before he had quite realised the awful truth, Sir Aymer rode up, still swearing and gesticulating, too angry to see the sad group which barred his way until Guy shouted to him hoarsely to stop.
The horror of this event shattered the young man's nerves completely, and, for a time, seemed to threaten his reason. He was of a nervous, delicate temperament, and it really seemed as if he never quite recovered from the effects of this shock. He was seriously ill for some time, and when the illness passed away, he had become possessed by the unfounded notion that if his father had followed poor Clarice, instead of stopping to rage at the workmen, she might have been saved. In very truth, Sir Aymer could in no way have prevented the accident; but Guy during his illness was haunted by the look of his father's face as he rode up, panting and furious, to where he knelt beside his dead sister.
As soon as he was well enough to travel, he left home, in spite of Sir Aymer's wrath, and for ten years he travelled about without once seeing his father. Then he wrote that he was in London, and Sir Aymer ordered him to come to Egerton Highfield without delay: it was for Guy that he was waiting now, as he paced the west terrace on that bright blustering March day.
Presently a door, opening from the great hall on the terrace, which, to all appearance, was merely a window, with the usual heavy wooden frame and the stone wall of the house beneath it, swung open, and young Aymer Egerton came out.
"Sir Aymer, I am going up to the East Lodge to meet Guy. He'll think it strange if I don't meet him there, at least."
"Never mind what he thinks. I wish to see him first, and alone," replied Sir Aymer, curtly. "I desired you not to meet him at the station—why then should you think I want you to meet him at the Lodge? It is quite enough that you should be an obstinate fool yourself, without teaching him to be another."
"I should hardly have time to do that, sir, in the drive up from the gate."
"Don't go! That's all about it," answered Sir Aymer, in a voice which one would hardly use in speaking to a dog, unless that dog were in grievous error.
Aymer shrugged his shoulders and walked back into the hall, and almost as he did so, his father heard him cry out, "What, Guy! Is this you, old fellow? I hardly thought you could be here yet."
Sir Aymer looked in. His sons were shaking hands hurriedly, and he could not distinguish that any more words passed between them.
But, in fact, the elder was whispering rapidly, "Guy, for pity's sake, don't contradict him whatever he says, don't refuse bluntly."
Guy passed on to the terrace, and found himself face to face with his father, who seized his hand, looked earnestly into his face, and then drew him close and held him fast. He really loved Guy; yet his first words were not gracious.
"So you have obeyed me at last, Guy."
Guy made no answer, and his brother made his appearance on the terrace before Sir Aymer could speak again.
"Here, old boy—let's have a look at you," he said, with his cheery, careless smile. "What has ten years of wandering done for you? Not much—you look older than you ought, and yet you are not much changed."
"You don't look a day older than when we parted," answered Guy, "and neither does my father."
"Go in, Aymer; I told you I wished to speak to Guy alone," said Sir Aymer, imperiously.
And his son obeyed, with a furtive but expressive glance of caution at his brother.
"Now, Guy, walk beside me. I have much to say to you. From your last letter I have concluded that you are at length weary of wandering, and mean to take your proper place in the world again. I hope it is so. Aymer is a fool, without an idea in his head beyond hunting and shooting, and he insists upon marrying Lady Anne Villiers—do you remember her?—the daughter of a man I never can get on with for five minutes. I look to you, Guy, to bring honour to the family. I will get you into Parliament, and make a man of you, if you will only use your brains for something practical. All this archæological and antiquarian and philological nonsense—only fit for magazine articles—will never really advance you a step; and you used to have ambition, Guy."
"Had I, sir? Well, I am as anxious as you can wish to begin a more settled life and to increase my income."
"I'm glad to hear it, very glad. Then you will be pleased with my plan for you, which will at once give you 20,000£. a year, and open a career for you in Parliament."
Guy stared. He knew that Sir Aymer could not give more than that, if so much, to his elder son.
"I don't think I understand you, sir," he said.
Sir Aymer laughed: he was in a wondrously pleasant humour.
"Did you wonder why I desired you to come here, instead of answering your question, as you asked me to do, in writing? Come here, Guy—come this way."
He walked on a little beyond his usual place for turning, to a window near the corner of the house. It was the window of what had been his daughter's sitting-room, and Guy hung back and turned pale, but Sir Aymer laid his hand on his shoulder and pushed him on.
"Look in!" he said, in the well-remembered tone of command.
Guy looked in, and saw a young lady reading quietly in the pretty room he knew so well. A bright, handsome girl about eighteen; but I need not describe her, as she has nothing more to do with this story after the hasty glance Guy cast upon her before his father drew him back.
"There, Guy; that's my ward, Adela Chenevix; she has 20,000£. a year, and is cousin to the Premier. Now do you understand?"
Guy looked round helplessly. He was a student—a scholar—with half a dozen languages at his finger-ends, but not one of them came to his aid at that moment.
"Do you understand, Guy?"
"You want me to marry her?" he said at last.
"Yes. Aymer ought to have had the first chance; but you, Guy, you will be a greater man than Aymer would ever be."
In this assertion I think Sir Aymer was wrong. Guy had not the making of a great man about him. His cleverness was all of the most dreamy and unpractical kind, and he had not even readiness enough to temporise with his father, as his brother had tried to advise him to do. Aymer could not have done worse, and would probably have done better.
"I cannot do it, Sir Aymer."
"Nonsense! Stay here a while, and see her; she's a very good girl I believe, and she's certainly very pretty. I don't want you to marry her to-morrow morning. You're six and thirty—you ought to marry: don't be a fool!"
"I cannot do it!" repeated Guy.
"Why not?"
"Because—I am married already."
Sir Aymer's face grow crimson. He could scarcely speak, and it was in a strangled whisper that he said,—
"Married! Secretly! And trying to keep concealed from me. Guy! Tell me in one word; have you made a low marriage?"
"I have been married for nearly a year, and—"
"I don't care how long. Who is she?"
"It was for this reason that I wrote to you. I must settle somewhere, and my allowance is not enough now. I must add to my income in some way, and—"
"Answer my question, sir! Money I can give you, if that is all. You have disappointed me, you have defied me; but only tell me that you have married a lady, and I will try to forgive you."
Guy was silent.
Sir Aymer waited, staring gloomily at his son's agitated face.
"Father! If you cast me off, I shall be a beggar. She has only a few hundred pounds—I have nothing. She's a good girl, and a pretty creature. I was ill—a sudden attack of fever—and she nursed me through it; and when I recovered, I found that she had learned to love me, and—"
"You have not answered my question. Until I know who and what she is, I have no ears for a romantic story."
Sir Aymer was trembling from head to foot, and his voice sounded like the muttering of distant thunder.
"Her father is an innkeeper in the Black Forest," blurted out Guy at last.
Sir Aymer turned nearly black in the face: his voice was now quite gone, and he stamped his foot and shook his fists more like a madman than a sober baronet of the nineteenth century.
At last he pulled out his pocket-book, opened it with blundering, shaking hands, and drew out a bank note.
"Take that," he shouted, "and go!"
Guy tried to remonstrate, but he might as well have talked to the wind, which at that moment rose with a long wild moan, as if of sorrow.
Sir Aymer thrust the note into his son's pocket, and turning sharp round entered the hall. A servant stood there waiting.
"Bid them bring the carriage round again. Have Mr. Guy's luggage put in, and let it follow him to the East Lodge. Leave the house, sir; I will never see your face, nor speak your name again!"
He walked through the hall and disappeared; and almost at the same moment, his older son came in, having been watching the scene from the window of another room.
"What is it, Guy? Why on earth did you contradict him?"
"I couldn't help it; he would have the truth. And there was no use in putting it off for a day or two. I have done for myself, Aymer. I am married,—to a German girl, little above a peasant. And you know best whether my father will ever forgive that!"
"Whew!" whistled Aymer. "What possessed you?"
"I don't know," was the dreary answer. "Poor little Elise! She deserved a better fate. Good-bye, Aymer; don't risk getting into a scrape by coming with me; good-bye, old fellow."
Aymer, however, insisted on walking with him until the carriage overtook them; and during that time he contrived to form a very true opinion of his brother's strange marriage. Elise was very pretty, very gentle, and very innocent, and she let the handsome, pleasant-mannered stranger see that she loved him; and Guy, always purposeless, was weak and ill, and let himself drift into an engagement.
"She could read and write," he said; "and her father gave her what he and all his neighbours considered an immense fortune!"
Five hundred pounds of our money is not, however, a large sum on which to begin the world, nor was Guy Egerton the man to make the most of it.
"He gave me this," Guy said, drawing out the note. "Take it back to him, Aymer. I won't have it."
"Nonsense! You have a journey before you, and you'll never get another penny from him, I'm afraid. Keep it, and I'll send you more as I can. Where is your wife?"
"In London. I must go back to her."
"Of course; and when you are settled, write to me. I'll consult Anne—do you remember Anne, who used to come here to play with poor Clarice? I'll ask her father to get you something—some Government situation. I'll do what I can for you, Guy. I wish, old fellow, I could comfort you up a bit. I wish—oh, Guy, I wish you were in love with the girl, since the deed is done."
"Ay, I wish I was," answered Guy, as he entered the carriage.
So the brothers parted, never to meet again in this life.
Guy did not write for many months, for, when his brother's kind voice no longer soothed him, his foolish, morbid pride was up in arms. He was not going to be a suppliant for some small place, or dependent upon any one. To return to his wife's native place was also distasteful to him, for the rude plenty of her father's house disgusted him; and thus it came to pass that he threw himself headlong into the first scheme that suggested itself.
He saw in a newspaper an advertisement of the "House and Lands of Ballintra," (pronounced as if written Ballintray), "in the County of W—, in Ireland, and within six miles of the town of E—"; and then followed a description of the fertility and beauty of the estate, the excellent dwelling-house, spacious gardens, etc.—all going a-begging, apparently, for a long lease was offered for thirty pounds a year; and there were sixty acres of land.
Guy Egerton, who shared in the very common delusion that every man is born a farmer, thought that this was the very thing for him. In order to be prudent, however, he wrote to the attorney who had advertised the place, to make a few inquiries, and heard that the reason for the lowness of the rent was, that the house required repairs, though it was quite habitable, and that the land was a little "out of heart,—" "whatever that may mean," thought Guy to himself—but that even as a sheep farm it was sure to prove a good investment to any one possessing a few hundred pounds to stock it.
Guy at once closed the bargain. He took his wife over to Ireland, and before he wrote the promised letter to Aymer, they had been some time settled in their new abode, and their eldest son had been born. Indeed, it was to ask his brother to be the child's godfather that he wrote at last: and he named the boy Aymer.
It has seemed to me necessary to sketch the early life of the father of my heroine—Clarice Egerton—that my readers may be prepared to make some allowance for him when they meet him again after the lapse of some years. This chapter is, therefore, merely introductory, and I hope I have not made it too long; but without it, I do not think I could have made my story clear and plain, without going back frequently to explain, which I wished to avoid.
[CHAPTER II.]
A PLEASANT HOUR.
CLARICE EGERTON was the fourth child of the couple who so rashly settled themselves in Ballintra. The three children who were born before her were very like their mother in appearance. But Clarice was an Egerton, and, more than that, she was lovely Clarice Egerton over again; and for this reason, she was the only one of his children of whom Guy Egerton ever took the slightest notice.
Time and disappointment had not improved him. Long before the birth of his fourth child, he had discovered that farmers are not born ready-made, or that if they are, he was not one of the number; and he had bought this piece of knowledge at the expense of every penny of his wife's money, besides getting into debt and living in a scrambling fashion, which was a continual misery to him.
His lovely little baby-faced wife was even more changed than he. She was so young at the time of her marriage that she had actually grown since then, and was now a tall, pale woman, with a few silver threads in her abundant light-brown hair, and a sad pair of blue-grey eyes looking out from a face no longer young. Poor, pretty Elise! She had long ago discovered that she had nothing in common with her husband, and that he had not that love for her which would have drawn them together. He was never unkind, but he rarely spoke to her.
His time, when in the house, was spent in reading (he had plenty of books, for he had been all his life buying them, and his brother had sent them to him some years before this), writing, and dreaming; and, for any good he did when out about the farm, he might as well have spent all his waking hours in these more congenial pursuits.
Elise never complained. She possessed a wonderful force of character, and more cleverness than her husband ever gave her credit for, in proof of which I may mention that she learned English so thoroughly that no one would have suspected that it was not her native language, and that she taught herself enough to enable her to teach her children, and this without other help than the use of good books and an occasional question asked of her husband. She never complained, as I have said, but she watched and observed; and, being a peasant by birth, she often felt sure that she could have managed the farm better than her husband did.
But, at first, he would not allow her to do anything—there were servants to do the work, and she must learn to be a lady. But those days were long past when Clarice was born. One elderly, rough-looking woman—Katty Simnott by name—formed the whole establishment then, and Katty had become so fond of "the misthress an' the children, God bless them!" that I believe she considered herself one of the family. As to her master, she was wont to remark that "Shure he was nawthin' on earth but an English Omadahn, and what would yez expect ov him?"
Little Clarice was named after her long-lost aunt by her father's desire; and a lovely, healthy, noisy creature she was. The next child was a boy, and, like Clarice, he was an Egerton in appearance; but beyond giving him his own name, Mr. Egerton (as I must now begin to call him) never took the least notice of him. Clarice was the only child he ever did notice, in fact.
Soon after Guy's birth, Mr. Egerton had a severe illness—acute rheumatic fever—and it aged him terribly. His hair grew grey, and this, with his stooping figure, made him look quite old—very much older than did his father, who still flourished at Egerton Highfield. When Mr. Egerton recovered, he told his wife that he intended to let the farm, either for grazing, or, what they call in Ireland, by con-acre: which means that several poor men join to take a field, of which each of them cultivates his own proportion.
"I cannot struggle on any longer, Elise," he said. "I lose by everything I undertake, and I can get thirty shillings an acre for the moorfields, and forty for about twenty acres. And there will always be the house and garden—though, indeed, the latter is of no value to us."
Elise saw her opportunity.
"Do not let the garden on any account, Mr. Egerton," she said eagerly, "nor the lawn."
"The lawn!" he repeated. "Why, there are eight acres in the lawn. I think I had better let it. The children can play there as usual, you know."
"Yes; but I could keep a cow, Mr. Egerton, and other things. And what shall I do without milk for the children? Leave me the lawn, the garden, and the peat bog, and let me do the best I can. You know I am not a helpless fine lady; I know about these things, and Katty will help me. Aymer is growing fast, and he is very strong; he will soon be of use: and as so much of what you will get for the land must go to pay the interest on our debts, I must work for the children."
Mr. Egerton looked nearly as black as his father could have done, and he answered very coldly, "You really think that you are likely to succeed where I have failed?"
This was exactly what Elise did think, but she only answered gently,—
"I do not mean to attempt so much, you know; and I was born among such work, and know about it."
"I had hoped you had forgotten that. You might at least let me forget it."
"I would gladly forget it," she answered, firmly, "if it did not mean bread for my children."
"Perhaps you even think that if I gave up the farm to you, instead of letting it, you would make a fortune?" he said angrily.
"No; there is no fortune to be made out of this wild place, but bread may be. I have no capital to farm, but I can and will feed my children. Let me do it, Mr. Egerton. I have never complained, but do not deny me this."
"It shall be as you will," he said, sullenly. "You shall have the lawn, the home field, the garden, yard, and orchard."
"And the turf bog?"
"Very well. This decreases my number of acres for letting very considerably; but the responsibility, is yours. I have nothing to do with it, remember."
Which was exactly what the poor woman wanted, for nothing seemed to prosper in his hands. But if anything was wanting to complete his alienation from his wife, this did it very effectually. He might have forgiven her if she had failed; but she succeeded, and her very success maddened him. He became more silent and absent than ever; read and wrote, and wandered out by the river, neither noticing nor caring for anything that was going on. Her tender care for his comfort never won a smile from him, and even little Clarice was no longer noticed.
Everything fell into her hands by degrees, and by exercising a strict economy, and as much as possible keeping house with her farm and garden produce, her eggs and chickens, her milk and butter and cheese, she even contrived to pay off some of the debts.
Her time was fully occupied, and the three elder children were becoming very helpful; all things were prospering in her hands. But a terrible misfortune happened when this simple, hard-working life had been going on for about eight years, during which time Mr. Egerton had become completely confirmed in his moody, unsociable ways—a misfortune which cost poor Elise many bitter tears, and my pretty Clarice life-long suffering; and yet a misfortune which most certainly was the greatest blessing which ever befel the family at Ballintra. That is a strange assertion, is it not? Yet if you read this story, I think you will acknowledge its truth.
Aymer was now a fine, sturdy, strong fellow of fourteen; Elise, or, as they all called her, Lizzie, was twelve, and Helen eleven. Clarice was just nine, and little Guy was so like her, and so nearly the same height, that they looked like twins; there was also a little girl baby in arms.
Aymer was now the principal gardener, and with the two girls under his command, had been working in the garden all the pleasant, breezy May morning. After dinner, he asked his mother if he might take all the children in his boat to the other side of the river—for the silver Slaney ran by the end of the lawn, and Aymer had a small flat-bottomed boat, which he found very useful in fishing, and a row in it was a grand treat to the rest of the family. The other side of the river was a delightful spot: rooky, full of trees, ferns, and wild flowers of every description; and as there was no bridge within many miles, and the river, though in its infancy, was yet not fordable, this lovely spot had all the charms of comparative novelty.
Great, therefore, was the acclamation when mother was heard to say, "Very well, Aymer; but don't take more than two over at the same time, and don't take Clarice and Guy together. I am always afraid they will upset the boat with their wild ways."
Aymer promised obedience, and the two children raised a yell of delight, which sank into silence in a wonderful hurry as their father entered the room. He seldom spoke to them, and never scolded or punished them, but in their merriest moment, his appearance would work a wonderful change in their demeanour.
Hats and baskets—the latter to bring home primroses, cowslips, wood-anemones, and any foolish little fern which might have been tempted to uncurl himself thus early, were soon snatched up, and away went the whole party down the steep green lawn, bounding, shouting, and chasing each other right merrily. Elise Egerton stood at the door and watched the crossing of the river. Guy was first ferried over, with steady Lizzie for a companion; then Helen with Clarice.
As Clarice jumped into the boat, she caught sight of her mother, and waving her hat in the air, her dark curls flying wild in the spring wind, she called aloud,—
"Have a hot cake for tea, mother; we shall all come home so hungry!"
"Sit down, child; sit down!" cried Elise, making a sign to the wild little lassie. "You'll fall into the water."
Clarice sat down,—in fact, Helen pulled her down; and away went the boat. Elise Egerton never saw her pretty Clarice stand upright again.
Primroses were plentiful: Clarice said they were like stars in a dark sky, and Guy, being of a literal turn, said that the sky never was green, that he could see.
"For all that, they are like stars," said Clarice, filling her basket with them as fast as she could; "and I've more stars in my basket than you have, Guy."
"Wait a bit," said Guy.
Soon the baskets were full. And sitting down to rest, Lizzie made a thick wreath, with a plait of rushes for a foundation, all stuck full of primroses; then she got up and came behind Clarice and put it on her head. Clarice's hat was not in the way in the least; she had left it in the boat.
"Isn't that becoming?" said Lizzie, turning up the beautiful little flushed, sunburnt face, that Helen might see it.
"Oh, Clarice is the beauty of the family," remarked Helen, gaily.
"I'd rather have nice light hair like yours," exclaimed Clarice, "and then Katty wouldn't call me a gipsy! What does she know about gipsies, though? There are none in Ireland."
"Are you sure of that, Clarice?" asked Guy, earnestly. "Oh dear, what a pity! For I'm writing a story all about gipsies, and I meant to make them live in the rooks here, and come over and steal our chickens."
"I'd like to catch them!" said Aymer, who was lying on his back half asleep.
"Have you got the story in your pocket, Guy?" inquired Lizzie. "I should like to read it."
"No, it's at home. And you couldn't read it. I can't read it myself—only I know what I mean." And Guy stood on his head for a moment, as a delicate hint that the conversation was becoming prosy.
"You can describe this place, Guy, and say it's in England," said Clarice, with a fine disregard for literary accuracy. "Don't stand on your head, Guy! Mother says I must not, and so you shan't. Now I'll tickle your feet, mind, if you don't stop."
"Don't be an iron," answered Guy, meaning a tyrant. "One iron's enough, and Katty says papa is a rale one."
"Guy, hold your tongue!" cried Lizzie and Helen in one breath. "You must not speak so of papa."
"It was Katty said it, not me. Come along, Clarice, and I'll show you where the gipsies were to have lived."
Clarice seized her basket, and off went the two allies; and their pleasant laughter was heard for some time by the grave seniors as they sat quietly on the bank of the river.
"Think of Katty saying such a thing before Guy!" remarked Lizzie. "I wonder if I ought to speak to her. I would tell mother, only it would vex her."
"Leave it alone," growled Aymer. "People will talk, and Guy will find it out for himself soon enough."
"Oh, Aymer! But he's our father!"
"I can't help it. I wish I could! I'd rather have one of the common day-labourers for my father—one who would work for his family and behave himself. There, girls, never mind, only don't talk to me any more about it."
Aymer was a very silent fellow, and it was but seldom that his sisters got a glimpse of his feelings: but there was a bitterness in his voice now which startled them. He sprang up from the ground, saying,—
"It is getting late; come along, girls. I want a stout ash stick, and it will be a pleasant walk to the plantation."
The girls hid their baskets in a quiet corner, and they all set out for the ash plantation. Having cut a stout sapling, they walked slowly back, and were gathering up the basket and wondering where the children were, when they heard a cry of distress.
[CHAPTER III.]
HOW IT HAPPENED.
IT was Guy's voice, and he was crying aloud, either in fear or in pain,— "Aymer, Aymer! Oh, where are you?"
"Why, what has happened to him?" exclaimed Helen. "He's down there, I think, by the sound." And she pointed along the bank in the direction opposite to that which they had followed in their walk.
Aymer shouted, "Here, Guy, at the boat!"
And they all set out to meet him.
"There he is! But he is alone. Where is Clarice?" said Lizzie, as the figure of the little boy came in sight. He was running us fast as ever he could along the shingly shore; his dress was all disordered, his hat gone, his black curls wet and matted on his forehead, and his face wild with fright and haste. He was so spent, poor child, with running and shouting, that he could not stop himself, but fell into Lizzie's arms.
"Oh, Aymer," he panted out, "Clarice is hurt! A big stone fell on her. I couldn't move it—and she's hurt, Aymer, and I had to leave her to find you. Oh, it was so horrid to leave her."
"Where is she?" said Aymer. "Come, Guy, you must show me the way. You come after us, girls."
Guy was nearly fainting from pure weariness and terror, yet he roused himself and took his brother's outstretched hand.
"Run, Aymer; never mind me; if I fall, you can pull me along."
But the running was soon over, for they came to a little creek, or bay, where a tiny rivulet emptied itself into the Slaney, and Guy said, "We climbed up here. It is quite near now."
Aymer lifted the child and pushed him up as high as he could, scrambling after him. The rooks were not difficult to climb, and the little waterfall guided them. They were soon at the top, and Guy pointed down into the bed of the stream, which had hollowed out as deep a channel for its insignificant waters as though it had been a much larger affair than it was. Down there, partly in the water, lay Clarice. From the edge of the bank, just where Aymer stood, a large stone had fallen; its bed was sharply defined in the black peaty soil, and the stone lay on the child, who was quite still and silent, uttering neither moan nor cry.
"Stand here, Guy; don't follow me."
And Aymer jumped down. He touched the child's forehead, and she moaned faintly. Just then Helen and Lizzie reached the bank where Guy stood, looking down.
"Oh, Aymer, is she dead?" cried Helen.
"No. She moaned just now. The stone must be moved somehow; it's on her right knee."
"You'll never be able to move it, it's far too heavy. Shall I run down to the boat and bring some one to help you—Katty, or mother?"
Aymer made no answer. He set his white teeth firmly, took a steady stand on the turf at either side of the tiny stream, and stooped over the stone. Never could he have lifted it at any ordinary moment, though he was as strong a young fellow as any of his years; but now excitement and sorrow made him twice as strong as usual, and with a shout he raised the stone, and let it splash into the water.
Clarice moved, uttered a terrible scream, and then lay silent.
Lizzie was down beside her now. "Oh, Aymer, I do think she is dead; I do, indeed. Oh, poor mother!"
"No!" shouted Aymer, almost fiercely. "Don't say that! It is her knee that is hurt, and she is cold from lying in the water. It's well her head was on the bank."
He was examining the child's knee as he spoke, and his face was pale and his hands trembling, both from the strength of his feelings and the tremendous exertion he had just made.
"The stone lay here; she's not injured anywhere else. The ground is soft, or her leg would be ground to powder. Is it broken, Lizzie?"
"I don't know, it looks terrible. What are we to do now? How can we ever get her home?"
Aymer raised himself; stood upright, and turned to calculate the height of the bank. On the edge above him knelt poor little Guy, his dark blue eyes fixed on Clarice in utter misery.
"Clarice is not killed, Guy. My poor little chap, don't look so miserable!"
"Aymer, if she is killed, I hope the police will take and hang me! For it was because I stood on the stone. She jumped down, and then stood calling me to jump too; but it looked so steep, and I felt the stone going and went back—and then it fell, and Clarice screamed, and—oh, Nelly, Nelly!"
Helen kissed and soothed him, but Aymer said, "Don't make a fuss now, Guy. We must not think of anything but Clarice. Girls, I'm going to lift her; she must not lie in the water any longer. I'll lay her on this bit of turf. There, my poor little pet! Now give me your handkerchiefs, girls; and your apron, Helen. Hand me that bit of stick. See, Lizzie, help me. I must tie it so as to prevent it from hanging down or moving. There!—" As he finished his rough surgery (rough in appliances, but not roughly done) "There, that's all I can do. I never could get her up there without shaking her. I must carry her up the bed of the stream until we come to the place where the banks are low. Then I'll go through the field into the lane,—you know where the lane leads down to the river? You, Helen, go down at once and bring the boat to meet us there. Do you think you can?"
"Yes, I can; Guy will help me. Come, Guy, we'll climb down here."
"You come with me, Liz; I may want help."
Then he lifted the child in his arms, and up the stream they waded. It was never up to their knees, and generally only covered their feet. Clarice moaned a little, and the sound was sweet music to their ears, for she was so white and cold that their hearts misgave them sometimes.
It seemed a weary way; but they reached the lane at last, and were soon at the river side, where the boat was waiting for them. Clarice was gently laid in the bottom of the boat, and Lizzie got in, that she might help Aymer when they reached the other side.
Meantime Elise had got through a great deal of hard work; generally the afternoon was lesson time, but the children's holiday was no holiday to her. When the sun began to get low, she went with a smile to mix the cake for which saucy Clarice had begged. She set it on the griddle (if you don't know the taste of hot griddle cake, I am sorry for you, and hope you will, some day), and then left it to Katty's care, while she went out on the door-steps to see if the children were coming over the river.
What she did see was Helen slowly and carefully pulling the boat up the river, while Guy followed as best he might along the shore; in a moment the mother's heart took alarm. Where were the others? What had gone wrong with them? She was sure that Guy was crying, and he did not often cry. In her alarm, she did what she had not done for many a day. She went into the room where her husband sat at his desk, and put her hand on his shoulder.
"Mr. Egerton, something has happened to the children."
"What!" he said. "Where are they?"
"Over the river. Helen is taking the boat round the point."
"Well, what of that? Do you think she cannot do it safely?"
"It is not that, but why is she doing it? Where are the others? What has happened, that they cannot come to the usual place?"
"Really, Elise, I think you are exciting yourself for nothing. I am very busy. They will all be home directly, you'll find."
She turned and left the room. It was growing dark, and she could no longer see clearly; but in a few minutes, a figure came quickly up the steep lawn, and Lizzie ran up to her.
"Mother, Clarice has had a fall, and is hurt. A stone fell on her. Aymer is carrying her up from the boat."
Aymer was beside them already.
"Don't try to take her, mother, darling. Her knee is badly hurt, but she's not hurt anywhere else, I think. Let me carry her to her bed at once; she's all wet and dripping."
At the sound of the voices Katty came running out of the kitchen.
"Och! Murdher! What's the matter with the darling of me heart?"
But Elise spoke not a word. She went up-stairs before Aymer, and took an old waterproof cloak from the place in the passage where it hung, laying it over Clarice's little bed, to keep it dry. Aymer laid his burden down tenderly.
"I must go back for the others now," he said; "but then I'll go for the doctor. I think you must have a doctor, mother."
She made a sign to him to go, and began to unfasten the child's dress with steady hands, though her face was white.
"Aymer, I'll go over in the boat for Helen and Guy," whispered Lizzie; "I shall not be afraid. You catch Rufus and ride to E—. Katty, you get any thing mother wants. I will be back as soon as I can."
Poor little Clarice! There she lay with the thick wreath of primroses still crowning her dark hair, and her basket of flowers crushed up in her arms—a poor little crushed flower herself.
Aymer had a long six miles—six Irish miles of a hilly road, to ride on his rough but sure-footed little pony. But he got to E— at last, and fortunately found Dr. Garvey at home. The doctor promised to come "as fast as the car would be ready," and to bring what he thought might be needed; and Aymer rode back, glad to be passed by the doctor on the road.
Mr. Egerton sat at his desk; not hearing any unusual sounds, he soon forgot his wife's "absurd panic." The daylight faded, and he lighted his lamp, and read, wrote, and dreamed on. He was not called to tea, but that did not disturb him in the least; he would never have remembered any meal for himself. But when several hours had passed since tea-time, he began to feel hungry, and while he was dimly wondering what ailed him, Aymer entered the room.
"Father," said he—and no one would have known his voice, nor indeed his manner; nay, his very face was different, somehow—"Father, Dr. Garvey wants to speak to you."
"Dr. Garvey! Why, who—what brings him here?"
"I went for him; Clarice has had a fall; she is badly hurt. Here is Dr. Garvey."
He let the doctor enter, and then left the room. Mr. Egerton looked like one but half awake.
"What is it, Dr. Garvey? I did not quite catch what the boy said. An accident to little Clarice, was it?"
"Yes, and I fear a very serious one. A large stone was loosened in its bed, first by her own jump from it—they were all scrambling about on the other side of the river—and then Guy got up to jump after her, and felt the stone going. He contrived to jump off, and the stone fell, knocking the little girl down and crushing her right knee very badly. I don't think any bones are broken, for the damp and soft ground saved her a good deal, but it is a bad injury, and I fear inflammation. The child's whole system, too, has received a great shock, for she lay half in the water for some time before Guy could find the others and bring help. I would not tell Mrs. Egerton how serious it is, because she seems so unhappy already that I quite dread knocking her up altogether."
Mr. Egerton, wide awake now, listened to all this with a dark frown. If he had a soft place in his heart, it was for little Clarice; and the impression left upon his mind by what the doctor said was, that there had been great carelessness on the part of the elder children, and that Guy was in some way to blame for the whole affair.
So instead of going up-stairs to say a few kind words to his poor wife, as soon as the doctor had left him, he sent for the children, and gave them such a rating that he soon had Lizzie and Helen in tears, and Aymer in a state of speechless fury. As for poor little Guy, he was sent off to bed supper-less, as a punishment for the accident which was breaking his warm little heart!
And need I say that not one of the four ever forgot their father's injustice? Oh, if people would but remember that injustice is the one thing a child never forgets! One act of that, and your child never really trusts you again. And why did not Mr. Egerton remember how terrible he had thought his father's face of anger, when he raised his eyes from his sister's dead face and saw him riding up? Was he not doing the very same thing now? However, having thus relieved his feelings a little, Mr. Egerton went up to the room where the child lay, and where Elise sat, pale and quiet, beside the bed.
Next day Clarice was in great danger. The knee was frightfully inflamed, and fever ran high. All her long thick curls had to be out off to cool her poor little burning head; and her mother and sisters spent every hour of the day, and of the next night, in bathing the knee with cold water, to keep down the inflammation.
For many a day, the child hung between life and death; and when at last she began to get better, she was but the ghost of the lovely, rosy, sunburnt child of a little time ago; and, what was worse, the injury proved to be a lasting one. The slightest attempt to stand, or even to move, without actually using the right leg, brought back inflammation and every bad symptom. Perhaps, if the Egertons had been very rich people, and could have had the best surgical advice from Dublin, she might have made a better recovery; but that of course was out of the question. And though Dr. Garvey did his best for her, poor little Clarice seemed likely to be a cripple for life, even if she did not sink under her terrible sufferings.
Mr. Egerton, after that first night, when he found (or fancied) himself in the way, returned to his usual habits. The sight of suffering was painful to him, and the little one's moans and cries were dreadful to listen to. So he kept out of the way, and only went occasionally to see the child. He wondered angrily why her constant companion, Guy, always fled on his approach; why Aymer looked sullen, and the girls nervous, when in his presence. But, though annoyed, he was not sufficiently roused to inquire; so he wrapped his mantle of selfish abstraction still closer round him, and went back to his books and papers.
[CHAPTER IV.]
HOW THE YEARS WENT BY.
IT was a sad change for poor little Clarice! From being the most active and daring among the children, the leader in all play, and, indeed, in all mischief too, frolicking about full of health and glee, to lie there in sore pain day after day, night after night, never able to move from her bed, or to join in any the old plays!
It was not wonderful that she was cross and fretful; and as every one was ready to humour her, and do anything to alleviate her suffering, she ran a terrible risk of becoming selfish and overbearing, and a great burden to all about her. But her heavenly Father had His own good purpose for little Clarice. The dark cloud was full of blessings, not for herself alone. She was to be blessed herself, and a blessing to all she loved; and do you suppose that her baptism of sorrow was a thing to be deplored? Ah, no! And so Clarice would tell you now; but it seemed unbearable then.
For a long, long time all seemed very dark. Poor Elise's heart was almost broken with watching the suffering which she could so seldom relieve, and the weariness she began to fear would be for life. Guy, who hardly knew himself without Clarice, gave up all his old ways, and sat by her bed patiently, trying very hard to please and amuse her; but his mother saw that he was growing pale and thin, and so she refused to let him remain indoors all day.
And this was the cause of the first serious struggle between Clarice and her mother. Clarice wept and fretted, and wanted her willing slave back again; and the poor mother found it very hard to deny her, but for Guy's sake she could not permit it. Then Clarice screamed, and thrust away the gentle hands that were always busy for her, and abused every one with such vigour and heartiness, that she proved herself quite worthy to be old Sir Aymer's grandchild. But she was very penitent next day, poor little woman, though she still cried and fretted to have Guy beside her. This was more than a year after the accident, and the monotony of her life was getting harder to bear every day.
One day Mrs. Egerton was alone with her; the rest were busy in the garden, digging and wheeling in the potatoes for the year.
"Mother," said Clarice, after a long silence, "how long do you think I must live?"
"My darling! Don't talk like that. I cannot bear it."
"But I was thinking last night, and I must talk about it. You see, I'm of no use now, and no pleasure to any one, not even to myself. And I suppose I never shall be any more; so I wish I was dead!"
"Clarice! We don't want you to be of use. My poor little darling!—We can do well, there are plenty to work and care for you."
"But I have so much pain, mother, and no fun now; so it would be a good thing if I was dead. What is the use of being alive, if I must be always like this?"
"It's the will of the good God," said Mrs. Egerton. Poor thing! It was a phrase she had heard her own hard-working mother use when things went wrong; and she thought it was the right thing to say.
But, alas, she know very little about Him whose name she thus used as a sort of spell. In the part of Germany where she was born, religion is at a very low ebb; and since she came to Ireland, neither she nor her husband, nor, of course, the children, had over been inside a church, except when there was a baby to be christened. The nearest church was six miles off, and they had no conveyance, save a common cart.
At first the Rector of E— used to visit them when he could find time; but he never saw anyone except Mr. Egerton, who let him see that his visits were unwelcome, and were considered an intrusion. At last Mr. Egerton was almost rude to him, so he gave up coming.
"Is He good?" asked Clarice, after a long silence.
"Is who good, dear?" Mrs. Egerton said, rousing herself from thought.
"God. You said that I am like this because it is His will. Is He good, mother?"
"Yes, my dear," answered the mother, promptly.
"But how do you know that? If He is good, why does He wish me to be like this? Are you sure He is good?"
"The Bible says so; and besides, He made us all—He gives us all we have—He redeemed us."
"What's that?" said Clarice.
"Oh! Clarice, liebchen, I don't know these things well enough to talk about them. We were all lost, and so He sent His Son to save us."
"Lost! Tell me all about it, mother."
"Why, you know all that, don't you, dear? I've taught you every one as much as I know myself."
"But it is so long since I did any lessons that I forget things. I know His name was Jesus, but I don't see, I can't remember, how He saved us. And what does being lost mean, mother?"
"Being bad and wicked, and not going to heaven."
"But we are not all bad. I dare say papa wants to be saved; but you are good, and so are Lizzie and Helen, and Aymer, and Guy, and Katty. No: perhaps Katty wants saving, for I've heard her swear, and sometimes she tells lies."
"We are all sinners—the Bible says so," Mrs. Egerton answered, helplessly. It was terrible to her to have to answer such questions and to hear such strange remarks.
"I think I am," Clarice said, thoughtfully. "Perhaps it is not right to be cross and to cry and fret and vex you. But, there, I never did when I was well and strong, and I would not do it now if I was well again. And yet you think it is God's will that I should be like this!"
She remained silent for so long a time that her mother hoped she had forgotten all about it. But poor little Clarice had not forgotten, and was floundering about very hopelessly on the margin of that wide and deep sea of perplexity in which many a better-found boat than hers has gone down. Presently she sighed deeply and said,—
"I wish I knew how to be good! I am afraid I am not good; and then if I die, I might not go to heaven; and then it would be better for me to live, even though I never get any better. You would go to heaven, mother—you're always good!"
"Ah, no, Clarice! I'm afraid not."
"Afraid you won't go to heaven?"
"No, no—afraid I'm not good."
"But that's all the same thing, for only good people go to heaven. I remember that much, at least. But I know you are good, mother dear, so don't you be frightened; but I ought to be frightened, for I am not a bit good. I feel full of crossness, and sometimes nearly hate people when I hear them running and jumping. And when baby was born, I hated her, because then you could not nurse me so much; and I hate—"
"Oh, Clarice, be still. It is wrong to hate any one, and I am sure you don't."
"I do sometimes, really. I'm afraid I am not good at all. If I was well and strong, I would be good; so it's not my own fault, after all."
"God will make you good, if you ask Him," Elise said, after a silent struggle. Her heart reproached her, both for her own ignorance and that of the child; but she did not know what to say.
"I should like to know more about Him, and about His Son who came to save us. Mother, where's the big Bible with the pictures, that you used to read us the story of Joseph and his brethren out of? Won't all about God be in the Bible? Do, mother, put down your work and read me a bit, just a story, out of the Bible."
Very glad to exchange talking for reading, Mrs. Egerton put away her work, and went down-stairs for the big Bible.
"What shall I road, Clarice? Joseph and his brothers, is it to be?"
"Not to-day. I want to read about God's Son. Begin at the beginning, please."
So Elise began at the first chapter of St. Matthew's Gospel. The child listened eagerly, and her questions and remarks prevented any inattention on the part of the reader. Among all Mr. Egerton's books there were none that a child would be likely to care for, and the elder children had never wished for any, so that reading was an amusement for Clarice of which no one had thought until now. She was a clever child, and her life of inactivity forced her to be a thoughtful one; and now she drunk in the words of the "sweet story of old" as if she heard it for the first time—which, indeed, was the case—for she had only learned a few of the leading facts as a lesson, and that long ago.
"'Thou shalt call His name Jesus, for He shall save His people from their sins.' Why, mother, that must mean that He will make them good."
"I suppose so, dear."
"His people. Who are His people, though? Am I one of them?"
A question which Mrs. Egerton could not answer; so she said,—
"Let me read on, Clarice; the others will be coming in soon."