CONSULTATION.
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SEVERAL years passed away, having brought with them several changes.
First, the universal failure of the potato crop all over Ireland
utterly ruined many of the hard-working poor men who used to rent Mr.
Egerton's fields; and the greater number of them emigrated—the greater
number, I mean, of those who did not die of the terrible fever which
followed the year of famine.
The land thus thrown upon their hands, Aymer and Guy manfully tried
to work; but though Aymer would certainly have done well if he had a
little capital, all he could do now was simply to ward off actual want.
There was no help to be looked for from Egerton Highfield, for the kind
older brother was dead; and Elise had lost both father and mother, and
had no one left who could be expected to aid her. Actual want of bread
was never felt at Ballintra, but, oh, it was a hard life!
Aymer took the "famine fever," and was very ill for many weeks, and his
mother was sadly worn in nursing him.
Some time before this, Lizzie had been married to the son of a Scotch
farmer who had recently come into the country; and when the distress
began, Helen, with her mother's consent, took a situation as nursery
governess in the family of a Mr. Wynne, who lived a few miles from
Ballintra. So there were two less to provide for; and Helen sent every
penny she could spare to her mother.
But of course the work all fell upon poor Elise, and the nursing of
Aymer too. She worked, and stinted herself, and kept things going; and
Aymer recovered, and was soon as well as ever. But his mother was worn
out, poor gentle, loving woman! worn out and heart-sore, and had no
longer strength to bear up under her trials. Another babe was born to
her at about this time, and though she recovered, and was once more
about and at work, she felt that her days were numbered; her long,
weary work was done. And so it proved. Silently and meekly, as she had
lived, she passed away.
Helen had come home to nurse her; Lizzie was there too; all her
children were about her, even poor Clarice, propped up on her couch,
that she might watch the dear worn face to the last. If deep and
reverential love could have made her happy, she surely had it from
those warm young hearts; but all their love could not keep her with
them. Her work was done, and she entered into her rest.
A week passed like a dream. Elise Egerton lay buried in the little
churchyard of Kilsteen, and her children sat in the bare, tidy parlour,
trying to face bravely their future life. In losing their mother, they
had lost their provider, their adviser, their head and guide; and very
desolate the poor things felt. Yet they must live, and the question was
how could their orphaned life be best managed?
"One thing is certain," said Helen, "I must stay at home. In fact, I
have written to Mrs. Wynne to explain to her why I cannot go back, even
for a week. But I am afraid I shall make a bad hand of it, having been
now for some time out of the way of such work; and the twenty pounds
a year is a loss, too. Aymer, have you any idea how much we have to
depend upon?"
"Oh yes," said Aymer, with a short laugh—not a very mirthful one. "And
it won't be much trouble to you to count it. Nothing. That's the sum."
"Nothing! But there must be something, or how do we live at all?"
"Nothing to depend on, I mean. There's no letting the land now, you
know; the country is a desert, and there's no one left to take it. Guy
and I put our work and strength into it, and we get out of it just what
feeds us and helps to clothe us, after paying the rent. It is well for
us that the debt was paid off before the famine, for we could not even
pay the interest now. But as to depending on it, why, if one of us was
ill again, or had an accident, the game would be up. And that's not the
worst of it, either."
"Why, what worse can there be?" exclaimed Lizzie. "I am sure that's bad
enough. You all work like slaves, and just get coarse food (not too
much even of that), and clothes that barely keep you warm in winter.
What worse can there be than that?"
"This," Aymer said, looking round cautiously, and then getting up to
shut the door. "Girls, you must know it sooner or later; and Guy says I
had better tell you, for that secrets are bad among those who mean to
sink or swim together. Only for that I wouldn't make you sadder than
you are already. Do you know that my father only holds a lease of this
place for his own life and hers—my mother's?"
"No; but I don't understand," said Helen.
"It means this: that we are working for bare bread, not laying by a
penny; and that if my father died to-morrow, we should all be turned
out on the roadside."
"Oh, Aymer, that can't be."
"It is, indeed."
"But I thought the place, such as it is, belonged to us?" Helen
persisted.
"Not an acre of it."
"At all events we could take it on: get another lease of it."
"I fear not, Nelly. The person my father took it from is dead, and the
new owner is rich, and could improve the land, and make it worth double
what we pay. He would never let it to us, without a penny of capital
to do it justice. I cannot help it, so there's no use in fretting; but
I do feel ashamed sometimes at the way I'm obliged to rack the land,
taking out all I can get, and putting nothing, or next to nothing, in.
There's no help for it. I don't see what we can do."
"But I do," said Guy, his dark face flushing with animation. "We must
emigrate! I know you think this nonsense, Aymer, but indeed it is not.
Just listen to me. You know, Liz, I go every day to Kilsteen, to help
Billy Cox, the postmaster."
"What does he want help for?" said Lizzie. "I don't suppose he has six
letters a day to sort."
"Six too many, dear Liz, for a postmaster who does not read 'hand o'
write,' as he calls it. And he gives money orders too; and nicely he'd
manage that without me! Well, the other day Miles Murphy (you know him,
Aymer, Smiley Miley, of Askinagap) came to the office to get money on
an order from New Zealand—enough money to pay his passage out, and get
him a small outfit. And he told me all about it. His cousin Tom, Big
Tom of the Ferry, was the first to go; he went the year the disease
came," (Guy meant the potato disease, but he had learnt from the
cotters to call it "the disease" simply), "and the next year he sent
enough to get out his wife and children; and now he's getting Miles
out; and he sends such accounts of the wages out there that you'd be
fairly surprised. He gets seven shillings! Think of that, Aymer! Three
half-crowns, all but sixpence, every day. And he was nothing but a
common labourer. A fellow who can do what Aymer can—or I either, when I
stop growing—"
"Ay, if you're ever going to stop, you young giant," said sturdy Aymer.
"A fellow who can reap and mow, and thatch and plough, shear, and
carpenter, and everything—would get ten shillings a day there as easy
as tenpence here; and it was Miley said it!"
In spite of their sad hearts, there was a general laugh at the fine
rich brogue in which Guy concluded his story. The young Egertons all
had pleasant accents, thanks to their foreign mother and English
father, and a softening touch of the Irish brogue, but in his
excitement, Guy unconsciously gave Smiley Miley's voice as well as his
words.
"If half of that is true, I wish I was there," said Aymer. "One would
soon save enough to get you all out."
"And that is what we must all look to and work for," went on Guy. He
was a tall, slight lad of sixteen now, with a handsome, refined face
and a thoughtful expression. "We must lay our heads together, see how
we can make and save a little money; and then one of us—you, Aymer, or
I—go out, and get the rest out by degrees."
"Save money!" said Helen. "But how, Guy? I see no way to do that."
"If we only had a little capital—just a few pounds to buy sheep. Aymer,
if we wrote to my father's people—"
"Put that out of your head!" Aymer interrupted him by saying, shortly.
"I will go to the poorhouse sooner, and see you all there too. Take
money from those who let my mother slave all her life because they
didn't think her good enough for them! Never speak of it to me, Guy."
"If the matter were put before my father, he might write—"
"Hold your tongue, Guy!" thundered Aymer. "My father!—I'll starve
first! You may swallow insult and contempt, if you like, and then lick
the hand that strikes you, but I won't! What possessed my father when
he married, I don't know; but well I know, he never loved mother. He
broke her heart, to begin with, and then he lived on her hard earnings;
and as to us, he wouldn't know if we were all dead and buried, nor care
either. We are only so many memorials of his mistake—he—"
"Aymer dear," said a soft clear voice, which had not been heard before
in this consultation. It was Clarice who spoke, and her dark blue
eyes were raised gently to his angry face, as she lay there still and
patient on her couch, just as she had lain for so many years.
Aymer turned and looked at her, his face softening, as it always did
for her.
"Guy did not mean to vex you; and papa is our father, you know. She
would not have let us speak so of him."
"That's true," said Aymer, frankly. "But, Guy, like a good fellow, say
no more of writing."
"He won't," Clarice said; "only, you know, we must think of every plan
until we hit upon the right one."
Then she took Guy's hand and coaxed it a little, until his face lost
the angry flush his brother's words had called up, and he smiled at her.
"Blessed are the peace-makers."
"Well—but what can we do?" asked Helen, somewhat mournfully.
"Muddle on as best we can, and die in the poorhouse," said Aymer.
"No, old fellow," said Guy, laying his hand on his brother's shoulder.
"Surely, with youth and strength to help us, and a good cause that must
have God's blessing on it, we need not fear that fate. Let us see if
we can't save a few shillings among us. We'll have a bag, and Clarice
shall keep it; and every penny we can screw up shall go into it. No sum
to be considered too small, remember; and not a penny to be spent that
can be bagged. In time, we shall have enough to take one of us out."
"I never saw the penny yet that we didn't want to spend on actual
necessaries," said Aymer, despondingly.
"No, but you will soon. Now I mean to put a notice up in the
Post-office window, offering my services as letter-writer and
accountant. I daresay I shall get a little employment. There are plenty
of farmers who are much in Billy Cox's condition as to reading 'hand
o write' and keeping accounts, and maybe they'll employ me. As to
letter-writing, I do that already for the whole neighbourhood, and for
the future, I shall charge two-pence ahead. And, if you wouldn't mind,
Aymer, if you didn't dislike it, I could tell you of something."
"Tell away, old fellow."
But Guy's eyes sought Clarice, doubtfully.
"He will like it; go on," said she, smiling.
"Well, Mr. Pearson, the Englishman who has taken the farm the Costillos
had; you know, don't you? Well, he wants a person to undertake the
care of his cattle. He called at the Post-office about it, and asked
Billy to let it be known. The cattle would have to be driven out in the
morning and driven in at night, bailed up, and bedded, and cared for.
The land lies all along the other side of the river, just as far us our
own goes on this; you could cross half a dozen times a day, and yet get
a good deal done at home."
"What did he offer?" asked Aymer.
"Two shillings a day, and the man's food. Then that meant the whole
day, of course. I suppose he would not give you so much, because you
would only mind the cattle, and be of no other use to him."
"But then he would not have to feed me; I should live at home, you
know. I'll go at once, and see Pearson. I can easily do it, for our
land up there lies so much higher that I can keep an eye on the cattle
all day long. We must repair the old boat. But tell me, Guy, why were
you afraid I should not like this?"
"Oh, I don't know. You might have thought—"
"I suppose it is because I said that about writing to my father's
people? But that's the very thing, Guy. I couldn't take their grudging
charity; but I don't mind how hard I work, nor what I work at. I hope
Pearson has not got a herd."
"I know he has not. One man he nearly hired, but then he found that he
drank."
"Well, I don't drink," said Aymer, with a short laugh. "If I get this
place, my wages will be so much clear gain, for with Guy and Katty to
help, nothing will be neglected at home."
"And I've thought of something, too," said Clarice. "Helen, do you
remember what you told me of Mrs. Wynne's surprise at the beauty of
your needlework? Do you think she would give us a line to a shop in
Dublin, saying we are fit people to be trusted? It's a shop where they
sell children's clothes and ladies' things ready-made, and we, dear
mother and I, were thinking of trying for employment; we were talking
of it the very day before she became so ill. She had written, and sent
a specimen of work; and the answer, which came that day, was that the
work was beautiful, and that they would employ us, but we must get a
line to say we might be trusted. They pay very well, too."
"What shop was it?" asked Helen.
"Mrs. Daly, 19, Grafton Street."
"Why, Mrs. Wynne deals with them!" cried Helen. "And I am sure she will
recommend us; but I must send a specimen of my work, for I don't work
quite as well as—as she did."
Poor Nelly! She broke down and cried; it was so hard to be forced to
realise that the mother's work was done.
"The little frock we sent was my work," said Clarice, after a pause.
"And I'm sure Helen will have no time for needlework, more than mending
and darning," said Lizzie Anderson. "You'll have all the work of the
house to do, and you know what that means. Cooking, washing, cleaning,
and baking once a week; minding the poultry; and then there's the baby,
too."
"Well, but I'm young and strong, you know. I'll tell them not to send
me work that must be done at once."
"And Katty does part of the washing," said Aymer.
"And I will draw all the water, fill the boilers, and bring in plenty
of turf before I go out," said Guy.
"And I'll run messages, Helen, and feed the fowls, and wash the cups
and dishes, and dust the rooms, and—oh, fifty other things!" cried
little Agnes, looking up from her knitting. "We'll all help. Only
Clarice can't help. Poor Clarice! What will you do?"
Clarice's blue eyes filled with tears.
"I can't do much, indeed, but I can work a good deal. I have to stop
and rest, but I get a good deal done, and I work very neatly. Oh, I do
hope—oh, Helen, I hope I won't be a burden to you!"
"Clarice! If you say that again, I shall be quite angry!" exclaimed
Helen. "Do you think I've forgotten to love you because I've been away
from home?"
Clarice drew a long breath, dried her eyes, and quieted herself as best
she could.
Guy bent over her, and whispered,—
"Clarice, don't you know that you make home to me?"
And Aymer put his rough, hard hand on her head, and said, gruffly,—
"You're a goose, Clarice. Show me the baby."
For the baby was lying warm and safe in her arms. She could at least
hold the baby, so she did it.
"You get some bright stuff and make a bag, Clarice," wont on Aymer;
"a good big one, because there will be pence, you know. You are to be
bag-keeper."
"I suppose because you are sure I shall not run away with it," said
Clarice. "I have a piece of queer thick silk, that I think was once
part of our grandmother's wedding-gown, which will just do for the bag,
and I will make it at once. Who is that at the door?"
The door opened as she spoke, and Mr. Egerton came in. He seemed to be
looking for something, but he did not speak until Helen asked him, "Do
you want anything, sir?"
"I left a book here, yesterday, I think it was; and some days before
I left some papers, loose sheets pinned together. I suppose you have
thrown them away?"
He spoke slowly, and almost like a person in a dream, and his eyes kept
wandering round and round the room, until they rested on the vacant
wooden arm-chair by the table, the chair which none of them had the
heart either to use or to set by. His colour changed—at least, his face
changed somehow, for he had hardly any colour—he pointed to the chair,
and said hurriedly,—
"Put that away; don't leave it standing there!"
And he turned and left the room quickly.
"Put it away," cried Aymer; "that I won't!"
"Yet it would be better, Aymer," said Clarice; "and I cannot help being
glad that he misses her, and cares."
"Cares! He cares because his books and papers are no longer put by for
him; that's about all he cares, Clarice."
"Oh, Aymer! I thought he looked very sad. Agnes, do you see that green
book on the shelf in the corner? That's the book, and here are the
papers in my basket. Here, Aggie, run to the study with them."
"But, Clarice, I'm afraid."
"Oh, you need not be a bit afraid, unless you're a little goosie. Run,
now; you know you've got to be my feet, because I haven't any of my
own."
The child went; and while she was absent, Clarice said, gravely, "I
think we ought to make a resolution never to say anything of papa that
mother would have checked us for. If we give ourselves the habit, it
won't make things easier, and Agnes ought not to hear it; besides, it
is wrong."
"So it is," said Aymer, briefly; "I won't do it again, Clarice."
"What did he say to you, Aggie?" asked Lizzie, as the child ran in,
looking scared.
"He was crying," Agnes said, impressively; "he was sitting by the
window, crying."
Clarice looked at Aymer, who shook his head.
"Oh, Aymer, don't be hard!"
"Be content if I am silent," Aymer said, quietly.
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