HOW THE YEARS WENT BY.
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IT was a sad change for poor little Clarice! From being the most active
and daring among the children, the leader in all play, and, indeed,
in all mischief too, frolicking about full of health and glee, to lie
there in sore pain day after day, night after night, never able to move
from her bed, or to join in any the old plays!
It was not wonderful that she was cross and fretful; and as every one
was ready to humour her, and do anything to alleviate her suffering,
she ran a terrible risk of becoming selfish and overbearing, and a
great burden to all about her. But her heavenly Father had His own good
purpose for little Clarice. The dark cloud was full of blessings, not
for herself alone. She was to be blessed herself, and a blessing to all
she loved; and do you suppose that her baptism of sorrow was a thing to
be deplored? Ah, no! And so Clarice would tell you now; but it seemed
unbearable then.
For a long, long time all seemed very dark. Poor Elise's heart was
almost broken with watching the suffering which she could so seldom
relieve, and the weariness she began to fear would be for life. Guy,
who hardly knew himself without Clarice, gave up all his old ways, and
sat by her bed patiently, trying very hard to please and amuse her; but
his mother saw that he was growing pale and thin, and so she refused to
let him remain indoors all day.
And this was the cause of the first serious struggle between Clarice
and her mother. Clarice wept and fretted, and wanted her willing slave
back again; and the poor mother found it very hard to deny her, but for
Guy's sake she could not permit it. Then Clarice screamed, and thrust
away the gentle hands that were always busy for her, and abused every
one with such vigour and heartiness, that she proved herself quite
worthy to be old Sir Aymer's grandchild. But she was very penitent next
day, poor little woman, though she still cried and fretted to have
Guy beside her. This was more than a year after the accident, and the
monotony of her life was getting harder to bear every day.
One day Mrs. Egerton was alone with her; the rest were busy in the
garden, digging and wheeling in the potatoes for the year.
"Mother," said Clarice, after a long silence, "how long do you think I
must live?"
"My darling! Don't talk like that. I cannot bear it."
"But I was thinking last night, and I must talk about it. You see, I'm
of no use now, and no pleasure to any one, not even to myself. And I
suppose I never shall be any more; so I wish I was dead!"
"Clarice! We don't want you to be of use. My poor little darling!—We
can do well, there are plenty to work and care for you."
"But I have so much pain, mother, and no fun now; so it would be a
good thing if I was dead. What is the use of being alive, if I must be
always like this?"
"It's the will of the good God," said Mrs. Egerton. Poor thing! It was
a phrase she had heard her own hard-working mother use when things went
wrong; and she thought it was the right thing to say.
But, alas, she know very little about Him whose name she thus used as a
sort of spell. In the part of Germany where she was born, religion is
at a very low ebb; and since she came to Ireland, neither she nor her
husband, nor, of course, the children, had over been inside a church,
except when there was a baby to be christened. The nearest church was
six miles off, and they had no conveyance, save a common cart.
At first the Rector of E— used to visit them when he could find time;
but he never saw anyone except Mr. Egerton, who let him see that his
visits were unwelcome, and were considered an intrusion. At last Mr.
Egerton was almost rude to him, so he gave up coming.
"Is He good?" asked Clarice, after a long silence.
"Is who good, dear?" Mrs. Egerton said, rousing herself from thought.
"God. You said that I am like this because it is His will. Is He good,
mother?"
"Yes, my dear," answered the mother, promptly.
"But how do you know that? If He is good, why does He wish me to be
like this? Are you sure He is good?"
"The Bible says so; and besides, He made us all—He gives us all we
have—He redeemed us."
"What's that?" said Clarice.
"Oh! Clarice, liebchen, I don't know these things well enough to talk
about them. We were all lost, and so He sent His Son to save us."
"Lost! Tell me all about it, mother."
"Why, you know all that, don't you, dear? I've taught you every one as
much as I know myself."
"But it is so long since I did any lessons that I forget things. I know
His name was Jesus, but I don't see, I can't remember, how He saved us.
And what does being lost mean, mother?"
"Being bad and wicked, and not going to heaven."
"But we are not all bad. I dare say papa wants to be saved; but you are
good, and so are Lizzie and Helen, and Aymer, and Guy, and Katty. No:
perhaps Katty wants saving, for I've heard her swear, and sometimes she
tells lies."
"We are all sinners—the Bible says so," Mrs. Egerton answered,
helplessly. It was terrible to her to have to answer such questions and
to hear such strange remarks.
"I think I am," Clarice said, thoughtfully. "Perhaps it is not right to
be cross and to cry and fret and vex you. But, there, I never did when
I was well and strong, and I would not do it now if I was well again.
And yet you think it is God's will that I should be like this!"
She remained silent for so long a time that her mother hoped she had
forgotten all about it. But poor little Clarice had not forgotten, and
was floundering about very hopelessly on the margin of that wide and
deep sea of perplexity in which many a better-found boat than hers has
gone down. Presently she sighed deeply and said,—
"I wish I knew how to be good! I am afraid I am not good; and then if
I die, I might not go to heaven; and then it would be better for me
to live, even though I never get any better. You would go to heaven,
mother—you're always good!"
"Ah, no, Clarice! I'm afraid not."
"Afraid you won't go to heaven?"
"No, no—afraid I'm not good."
"But that's all the same thing, for only good people go to heaven. I
remember that much, at least. But I know you are good, mother dear, so
don't you be frightened; but I ought to be frightened, for I am not a
bit good. I feel full of crossness, and sometimes nearly hate people
when I hear them running and jumping. And when baby was born, I hated
her, because then you could not nurse me so much; and I hate—"
"Oh, Clarice, be still. It is wrong to hate any one, and I am sure you
don't."
"I do sometimes, really. I'm afraid I am not good at all. If I was well
and strong, I would be good; so it's not my own fault, after all."
"God will make you good, if you ask Him," Elise said, after a silent
struggle. Her heart reproached her, both for her own ignorance and that
of the child; but she did not know what to say.
"I should like to know more about Him, and about His Son who came to
save us. Mother, where's the big Bible with the pictures, that you used
to read us the story of Joseph and his brethren out of? Won't all about
God be in the Bible? Do, mother, put down your work and read me a bit,
just a story, out of the Bible."
Very glad to exchange talking for reading, Mrs. Egerton put away her
work, and went down-stairs for the big Bible.
"What shall I road, Clarice? Joseph and his brothers, is it to be?"
"Not to-day. I want to read about God's Son. Begin at the beginning,
please."
So Elise began at the first chapter of St. Matthew's Gospel. The
child listened eagerly, and her questions and remarks prevented any
inattention on the part of the reader. Among all Mr. Egerton's books
there were none that a child would be likely to care for, and the elder
children had never wished for any, so that reading was an amusement for
Clarice of which no one had thought until now. She was a clever child,
and her life of inactivity forced her to be a thoughtful one; and now
she drunk in the words of the "sweet story of old" as if she heard it
for the first time—which, indeed, was the case—for she had only learned
a few of the leading facts as a lesson, and that long ago.
"'Thou shalt call His name Jesus, for He shall save His people from
their sins.' Why, mother, that must mean that He will make them good."
"I suppose so, dear."
"His people. Who are His people, though? Am I one of them?"
A question which Mrs. Egerton could not answer; so she said,—
"Let me read on, Clarice; the others will be coming in soon."
She went on with the story; but the death of the babes of Bethlehem
proved too much for poor Clarice, and her burst of lamentation brought
the first reading to an abrupt conclusion.
"Oh, the poor little babies!—Little, small babies like our Agnes—all
murdered; and their mothers loved them as you love us. Oh, how could he
do it? Mother, are you sure it is true?"
And when she was going to sleep that night, Clarice begged that baby
Agnes might be brought to her, that she might kiss her.
"Oh, little baby," she whispered, "I said I hated you, but it was not
true! How could that Herod hurt a wee little white thing like you?"
But next day, she had got over her horror sufficiently to permit her
to wish for more of the "story about His Son," as she called it. And
patient Elise laid aside her needle and read on. The history of the
preaching of the Baptist, of our Lord's baptism, and of the temptation
were read and listened to in silence; but when they reached the
twenty-fourth verse of the fourth chapter, where miracles of healing
are recorded, Clarice sighed deeply.
"If I had lived in those days, Aymer would have carried me a hundred
miles to find Him," she said.
Mrs. Egerton hastily turned over the leaf and began the Sermon on the
Mount.
Neither mother nor child ever forgot that reading. Clarice had never
heard it before: Elise had read it with her eyes only. But now, with
a pair of great blue eyes, dark and bright, fixed on her face, and a
little eager voice insisting on a meaning for every word and sentence,
somehow there was a great deal in that sermon that Elise had never
seen there before. There was much that she could not explain, for she
was very ignorant, and her mind was smothered under all her cares; but
there was much that seemed very plain.
They went no further that day, and the result of Clarice's meditations
was expressed when her mother was leaving her for the night.
"Mother, one lovely thing is that even if I don't get well, I may try
to be good. You know He said that it was meek people, and peace-makers,
and those that mourn, that are blessed. And all those things I can try
to be. Only it won't be easy, because when I have bad pain, I do like
to scream and be cross."
I cannot delay to tell of each day's reading; but before they reached
the end of St. Matthew's Gospel, Elise Egerton had begun to find rest
for her poor wounded heart and troubled mind in Him whose "name is
Jesus, because He saves His people from their sins."
The picture Bible was too large and too heavy for Clarice to hold,
which was a great grief to her, because she had no other books, and,
besides, if she could have been the reader, her mother could have
listened and gone on with her mending at the same time. One day, when
her father paid her one of his rare visits, the child gathered courage
to ask him a question.
"Papa, are Bibles ever made into small books?"
"Yes, certainly," he answered, absently.
"And yet all the Bible is in the book?" she asked again. "They don't
leave out bits, do they?"
"No. The print is small, you know, so that it requires less space."
"I do wish I had a little Bible," she half whispered.
"What do you want with a Bible, child?"
"To read; mother reads to me when she has time, but if I could read,
she might work and listen. But I can't hold the big Bible, you see."
"Why do you want to read it?" Mr. Egerton asked, with a smile upon his
lips.
"Because it makes us happy."
The answer puzzled him, and touched him too.
"Poor little Clarice! If it does that, read it by all means. I will
give you a small one."
He left the room, and she heard him go to his study.
"He will forget all about it!" she thought: but no, he was coming
up-stairs again.
In his hand he carried a small Bible bound in crimson velvet. A gold
shield on the cover bore the name "Clarice." Mr. Egerton's face was
unwontedly soft and sad, as he looked at the book, as if half unwilling
to part with it.
But Clarice did not perceive this as she stretched out her hands and
took possession of the book.
"Oh, papa, how beautiful! I did not know that a book could be so
beautiful. And my name is on it! How very strange!"
"It is yours now," he said, slowly. "It was once—It once belonged to my
sister Clarice, after whom you were named: you are like her too, very
like her. I will give you the book, child; but keep it out of my sight,
I could not bear to see it lying about."
"Indeed, it shall never lie about," Clarice said. "Papa, I don't know
how to say thank you."
She was too much awed by his agitation and by his unusual kindness,
to say anything more, and with instinctive tact, she covered it until
he left her. But when he was gone, she began eagerly to try to read
it; and, behold, to her horror, she had forgotten all but a very few
words. Guy, coming in with some flowers, (he brought her fresh flowers
every day, even if he had to trudge two miles to find them), found her
bewailing herself sadly.
"Oh, Guy, isn't it too bad? Look at the lovely Bible papa has given me,
and I've very nearly forgotten the letters. I'm like Katty, for I could
read my own name on the cover, just as she can write hers, and no more."
"Don't cry, Clarice; I'll run for my spelling-book, and teach you all
over again," said Guy, promptly.
This lesson proved the beginning of much pleasure to both. Guy was
a clever boy, and Clarice was clever too, and the accident which
had overshadowed both the bright young lives, made them thoughtful
children. There were plenty of books, English, Latin, Greek, German and
French; some not very good for such young readers, perhaps, but none
that any child was likely to read unless under peculiar circumstances.
As to the Latin and Greek, when this fever for study seized upon the
children, they were in despair, to find so many books that were useless
to them. But, nothing daunted, Guy coaxed his mother to buy him a
Latin Grammar one day that she went into E—, to buy some clothing. And
among his father's books, he found a dictionary. These were treasures
indeed! And it was really astonishing to see how much they succeeded in
learning without help.
But it happened that one day Mr. Egerton found Clarice struggling
with a difficult sentence in a Latin book, and questioning her, was
surprised to find how much she knew. Clarice was the only creature he
ever seemed to care for, and, to her surprise and delight, he offered
to give her lessons.
"Teach me Latin! Will you really, papa?"
"I will," he answered, with a sigh. "Your life needs any brightness
that I can give it."
"And Guy, too, papa—we work together."
"No," he answered, frowning. "Of what use would Latin be to him? Let
him learn to dig and plough, like his eldest brother. If you could
work, I would not teach you; and I am not sure that I am doing you a
kindness as it is."
"Oh yes, papa; indeed you are," she answered, timidly.
After this, Mr. Egerton gave her an occasional lesson. Sometimes he
forgot all about it for days together, and at other times would get
interested in her intelligent way of learning, and give her several
lessons day after day. How hard Clarice worked, and how delightedly she
taught her new acquirements to Guy! It was new life to Clarice, this
world of books; and as to Guy, he soon left her behind in many things,
though they still worked together and helped each other.
Mr. Egerton's fancy for teaching Clarice only lasted a few months;
about a year and a half. At the end of that time, she was well enough
to long to be in the room where the others worked and took their meals;
and Aymer and Guy contrived a couch for her, made out of six disabled
chairs. On this, by means of stout poles passed under the head and
foot, they could lift her without hurting her. A little room inside
the parlour, which had hitherto been unused, was got ready for her,
Aymer papering it afresh with his own hands; and in this room and the
adjoining parlour, lifted from one to the other by her brothers and
sisters, did Clarice spend many a year of her young life.
But when she came down-stairs, and was again one of the family, Mr.
Egerton quite left off teaching her, or taking any special notice of
her. However, by that time, Guy and Clarice could get on by themselves.
And many a boy and girl, with teachers and governesses ever trying to
improve them, would have wondered at the amount of good solid learning
which they contrived to acquire.
Nor was Clarice content to be any longer a useless member of that busy
family.
"Mother, dear," she said, "you must teach me to knit and sew and darn.
I am afraid I cannot do very much, but even a little will be some help."
She soon learned, being very much in earnest. But, one day, having
worked at hemming some stiff new sheets until she was over-tired and a
little feverish, she burst into tears, exclaiming that she was a burden
and a bother! She could do nothing, though she wished to do so much!
"Clarice, liebchen," said her mother, softly, "listen now to me. It
seems to me, dear little one, that you are making a mistake. If you do
what you can, the good God knows why you don't do more."
Clarice ceased crying; and after a few moments, she took her
velvet-covered Bible from under her pillow, and turned the leaves
slowly. At last she found what she wanted, and read aloud the words:
"'She hath done what she could.' Mother, I will try to remember that.
It was not much that she did; yet He said that it should be told
wherever His Gospel was preached, for a memorial of her. I shall never
be good for much; but I'll do what I can."
"Yes; for His dear sake, my child. Yes, and you are to fret no more.
Just do what you can; you are very useful to me, Clarice; and when
you are tired, rest, and don't make yourself miserable. Thou hast but
little strength, poor child; thy heart is greater than thy strength."
When Mrs. Egerton was moved, she sometimes fall into the "thee" and
"thou" of her native tongue.
I have now given you a brief account of things which took three or four
years in passing. Clarice was nine years old when she met with her
accident, and I leave her now at thirteen, a sufferer still, but no
longer a hopeless, repining sufferer. In the rest of my story, I hope
to show you what kind of girl this poor little Clarice became, and how
she bore her part in the battle of life.
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