A PLEASANT HOUR.
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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.
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