A PAIR OF SHOES.
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IT was about this time that Clarice became convinced that she could
venture to move without bringing back pain and inflammation in her
injured knee. Painful to a certain extent it must always be, for it
was twisted and distorted in a dreadful manner; but the acute agony
which used to follow upon every attempt at movement seemed to have worn
itself out. Clarice tried several experiments when she was quite alone,
and succeeded beyond her hopes. She began to wonder if she could not
contrive some kind of support, which would make walking possible. The
pain in her back she believed to be only the consequence of lying so
much in the same position, and therefore determined "not to mind it."
In writing the story of Clarice Egerton, I find that I am not giving
any true idea of the amount of suffering which she bore so quietly. But
really she said so little about it, and gave way to it so little, that
the fact that she was a great and constant sufferer was never brought
much before even her own family. To Guy alone did she ever speak of it,
after her mother's death; and he always said that he only knew of her
suffering because she sometimes told him how pleasant it was to be free
from pain again.
Having considered the matter thoroughly, Clarice took Guy into her
confidence. They were alone together one evening, and she said to him,—
"Guy, I want you to help me a little. You are such a clever carpenter,
do you think you could make me a crutch, like this—" showing him a tiny
model made of morsels of stick tied together—"and a common crutch for
the other side? For, do you know, I think I could manage to walk if I
had them?"
"My dear Clarice, it would hurt you terribly!"
"Not much; and it won't do any real harm. It would be such a comfort if
I could do more for myself, Guy; Helen has so much to do."
"If you really wish to try, I think I could make this. I see your idea;
you want a flat place for your knee to lie on, and it must be soft.
Don't you think it will be very heavy?"
"I'm afraid it will; but after a time, I may be able to do without it.
I could not at first. Don't tell any one, Guy; we will surprise them
some fine day."
"Well, the first thing to be done is to measure you carefully. It must
be exactly the right height, you know. Could you stand up, holding by
the sofa?"
"Oh yes, I have done it every day lately, when you were all out of the
way. The worst of it is, I have no shoes."
"Poor Clarice! The little pair you wore that dreadful day wouldn't be
of much use now! Oh, what a day that was! It haunts me in my dreams
even now."
"I don't recollect much after I fell. Look, Guy, don't I stand up
gallantly? And, oh, how tall I feel! Kiss me; I want to be kissed
without being stooped over."
Guy kissed her with tears in his eyes. "Clarice," he said, "you have
the spirit of a hero!"
Then he got a bit of string and made his measurements carefully; and
next day he lost no time in setting to work. The fact that for several
days he covered the floor with chips and shavings, and that he and
Clarice had great consultations about a queer-looking pillow, raised
no suspicions, for Guy was often seized with a fit of inventing, and
would work away at every spare moment over his models. He was as clever
with his hands as with his head, and the crutch was not so very heavy
after all. The whole way to E— did he walk to buy a pair of shoes for
Clarice; and surely no shoes, since Goody Twoshoes' time, ever gave
such pleasure.
The first time Clarice crossed the room on her crutches, she very
nearly fainted, so great was her nervousness. But perseverance does
wonders—"use lessens marvel." And after a few trials, she could use
them cleverly, and was quite fearless.
Guy's pride and delight at seeing her once more able to get about
(though in far different fashion from the dancing step which had so
often led him into mischief in old times) were very great. He declared
that the time had now come for letting the others into the secret.
Aymer, Helen, and Agnes, who were in the garden, were accordingly
surprised to hear him calling out—
"Holloa, there! You are very late! Here is Clarice coming to look after
you."
And there, indeed, in the doorway, stood Clarice, whom Agnes had never
seen stand before! Her long black hair had fallen out of the net she
usually wore, and, hanging over her shoulders, quite concealed the fact
(of which, alas! they soon became aware) that long lying in an uneasy
position had brought on a slight curvature of the spine; her cheeks
were flushed with excitement, her eyes bright with amusement at their
surprise.
Each one could see what a beautiful creature Clarice might have been!
All hurried forward; Agnes, screaming with joy, would have thrown her
arms round her, crutches and all, but that Guy caught her.
"Stop, stop, child! You'll have her down. You must only admire her at a
distance until she gets a little steadier; but isn't it nice to see her
off her sofa?"
"Oh, Clarice, Clarice," cried Helen, "how could you do it, when I know
the pain every movement gives you! I'm afraid you will make your knee
as bad as ever again."
"I don't think so, Helen. It's a long time now since there was any
inflammation; it is only twisted and stiff; and I did so long to try.
See how well I get along; is it not a graceful movement? Now I can do
so much more, Nelly."
"You do enough. Oh, Clarice, I should be so glad, if I wasn't so
frightened."
"But don't cry, Nell."
"I must. Oh dear, I can't help it, though I know it is foolish. But
when I remember how you were always the quickest and the most daring of
us—and now—"
"Too daring, I'm afraid. Don't think of that, Helen; think instead how
long I've been lying there, and how pleasant it is to me to be on my
feet again. Aymer, you haven't even wished me joy."
Aymer kissed her, taking up a great handful of her abundant hair, and
giving it a gentle pull.
"Here's papa!" said Agnes, suddenly. "Let us see if he will know
Clarice."
Mr. Egerton came slowly towards the house, raised his eyes, and found
himself face to face with Clarice. He started, and after an evident
struggle for composure, said,—
"How did this—when did you get better, Clarice? Would none of you take
the trouble of telling me?" he added, sadly.
"Oh, papa, they none of them knew except Guy, until this evening. He
helped me, and made these crutches. But indeed, papa, I should have
told you, if I had thought you cared."
He looked at her earnestly for a moment, and then said,—
"Just so. Don't hurt yourself, Clarice. If you were to bring back
inflammation, it might cost you your life. I should advise your
standing but little at first."
"I will remember, papa. I shall go and lie down now, for I am tired."
She went in and lay down, tenderly aided by brothers and sisters, and,
to her surprise, watched in silence by her father.
She could not get his words and look out of her head. What did he mean?
Was it possible that his heart sometimes yearned for a little affection
from his children—that he felt lonely and sad? But then, how could they
be expected to feel affection for him? He had so completely neglected
them all their lives, that Lizzie had once said, laughing, that until
she married, he had never made up his mind which was Lizzie and which
Helen!
"And I don't see how we could care for him," Clarice said to herself;
but there was an uneasy feeling all the time. "He looked so sad," she
thought, "that I cannot help pitying him. We are so happy together; he
is so lonely. Mother was more to him than he thought. Yet after all, it
is his own doing."
But Clarice had read her Bible too well for that to satisfy her. Words
kept coming into her head all the evening.
"Forgive, and ye shall be forgiven."
"Be ye kind one to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even
as God for Christ's sake hath forgiven you."
"If ye love those which love you, what thanks have ye?"
"Children, obey your parents in the Lord."
These thoughts made her so silent that Helen, who was helping her
to undress, said, "I know you are in pain, Clarice; you have hurt
yourself."
"No, indeed. I am only thinking of papa. How he did look at me to-day."
"Because you are like his sister, you know."
"Yes; but he seemed hurt. Perhaps we forget him too much, Helen. He
must be very lonely without mother."
"Now, Clarice! He never seemed to know when she spoke to him! And as
to us, we might all go to New Zealand to-morrow, and I don't think he
would miss us, unless Katty forgot to give him his meals."
"I'm not so sure of that. I can't help fancying that he thinks more
about us now."
"May be so; but I have enough to do without thinking of him. He chose
that kind of life, so no doubt he likes it. Are you comfortable now,
dear? Take baby then. Good-night, Clarice."
Clarice lay thinking. "Yes, Helen has more than enough to do; but there
is very little that I can do. Perhaps I ought to try to get nearer to
him if he will let me; I am sure he is lonely and unhappy. I won't
think any more about his neglect of us, but only that he is lonely and
sad, cast off by his own people, a stranger to his children, growing
old, all alone; and, I'm afraid—"
But she did not pursue that thought. If she had, it would stand thus:
"Afraid that in losing his wealth and worldly position, he had lost his
all."
Next morning, she ventured to get up and dress before Helen came to
her. Baby lay in bed, staring round-eyed at her unwonted proceedings;
but by the time Helen came, both she and baby were dressed.
"Now, Helen, see all the trouble I shall spare you. Is not this worth a
little pain?"
"Indeed it is not! I shall never forgive you, Clarice, if you hurt
yourself to help me."
"It does not injure me; and the longer I put it off, the worse the pain
will be. Now I shall hop gracefully out into the parlour; but you must
carry baby."
Her appearance was greeted with loud applause by Guy and Agnes; but an
attempt to sit at the breakfast table was unsuccessful. She got quite
faint from the pain in her back, and was obliged to lie down.
After a time, Mr. Egerton came in.
Clarice looked up at him as he passed, and said, "Papa, I dressed
myself and baby without help, and came in here on my crutches. Is not
that a good thing?"
He paused, as if not quite certain whether he was pleased or the
reverse, but meeting her timid, gentle eyes, he half smiled and said,—
"Very good; but take care. 'Festina lente.'"
"Not much of a conversation," thought Clarice; "but it will do for a
beginning."
"Why, I declare," cried Helen, "there's the postman!"
"The postman!" every one exclaimed at once.
Clarice felt quite sick with excitement. She had waited very patiently;
but now, if that postman had not brought her a letter from Villiers, it
would be too much.
Guy went to the door, and returned quickly.
Mr. Egerton, naturally enough, held out his hand for the letter.
"It is not for you, sir. It's for Clarice, 'Miss Clarice Egerton,'
quite plain; but who wrote it, I can't imagine."
"I know; oh, I know! Give it to me quickly."
She tore it open and glanced through it. Then she let it fall, and
threw her arms round Guy, who had knelt beside her to look at the
letter.
"Guy," she sobbed out, "it has come! You have got what we asked for. I
knew we should, if we had patience. But, oh, what shall I do without
you?"
"Clarice dear, what do you mean? I don't understand it at all."
Clarice calmed herself by a great effort. "I'll read it to you all,"
she said. "It is from Villiers."
"What made him write to you?" said Mr. Egerton, who was standing by the
head of her couch.
"Because he promised to get a situation for Guy; and he says he has
done it."
"Did you ask him to do so?"
"I did. Was it wrong, papa? I did not think it could be."
"There was nothing wrong in it. What does he say?"
Clarice coloured. "When I said I would read it, papa, I did not
remember that you were in the room; perhaps you would rather read it to
yourself."
"No; read it. The worst was said and done before you were born, child;
I'm past feeling it now."
And Clarice read:
"Egerton Highfield.
"MY DEAR CLARICE,
"I hope you have never doubted that I remembered my promise; but if
you have, you will now feel ashamed of yourself, and serve you right.
"When I got home, I spoke to Sir Aymer at once, and we had no end of
a row; but I did not let him silence me until I had said my say, and told
him that he ought to do something for you all. However, he won't; and
was he not angry! But I was not going to be beaten, so I got my mother
to interest herself in it, which she did, on one condition. I shall
tell you what that was presently.
"She has found something that perhaps may do. There is an old
gentleman in London who was once a famous surgeon, and he is very rich
and clever, a great reader, and as learned as—I don't know who! Well,
some years ago he became quite blind, and he likes to be read to all day
long and to dictate letters and, I believe, books, to his secretary. He
has neither wife nor child, nor any relative but a nephew, who spends
a good deal of time with him, but never in the morning, as he is in
a government office. So he always has a secretary, who comes to him
every day at ten o'clock and stays till three, and who must come again
in the evening if the nephew has other engagements.
"Now, I must tell you plainly that Dr. Majoribanks is a great oddity,
and never takes the least notice of his secretary except whilst they are
actually busy together. He wants one now, who must read French and German;
and I am sure Guy would suit him; but I don't feel so sure that he will
suit Guy, for I suspect he is not over pleasant, though he does not come
up to Sir Aymer. But if he does not like to remain, my mother says that
Dr. Majoribanks will get him something else to do, for he is an old
friend of hers, and he has promised to do so. He will give a hundred
and fifty pounds a year, but he will not have his secretary to live
in his house—only to come when wanted; so that this is not as good
a salary as it sounds. But it is the best thing I can hear of, dear
Clarice. I wish sincerely it was better, but, you see, with Sir Aymer
against me I can do so little.
"My mother's condition is that I am to obey Sir Aymer, and not visit
you, nor write to you until I am of age. He has a right to control me
until then; but it is only three years now, and then I shall look you
up. Until then I must say good-bye to you all, my dear cousins, for I
know Clarice would not let me disobey, even if I wished; and really
mamma has been very kind.
"I send a little present for Guy, to help to fit him out if he accepts,
and I enclose Dr. Majoribanks's address. Guy is to write to him at
once, and go to him without delay, if he decides on going. Mamma joins
me in this present, and do not be annoyed with me for sending it. Sir
Aymer is a hard-hearted old—but there, I know how you will look if I
abuse him. Good-bye, dear Clarice, but not for very long. Don't forget
me—I shall never forget you. I did not know how good one may learn to
be till I knew you.
"Your affectionate cousin,
"VILLIERS A. EGERTON."
The present proved to be a Post-office order for twenty pounds.
"Oh, Clarice!" Guy exclaimed. "I owe this to you. I have been longing
for it; and yet now that it has come, I don't know how to leave you
all."
Clarice stroked his cheek and his curly dark hair; she dared not trust
her voice to answer him.
Aymer said, "How kind of Villiers! It's a great thing for us all, Guy.
I wish you joy, dear old fellow."
Helen stooped and kissed the top of his head, his face not being
visible just then.
They had all forgotten their father's presence, until he said,—
"You none of you have the least idea to what a life of temptation and
poverty Guy will go—if he goes."
"Poverty, sir!" exclaimed Aymer, startled out of his habit of never
addressing his father. "A hundred and fifty pounds a year! Why, it is
more than we all have to live on here."
"But how do we live? And how do we dress? And there is the garden and
farm, and—and—"
He paused, and looked puzzled. The truth was, that he knew his children
so little that he did not know how to speak to them.
"I could not make you understand if I talked to you for an hour," he
said at last. "But between poverty here and poverty in London there is
a great difference. Here, there is no one to spy upon our misery; no
one whose wealth and prosperity make our lot the harder by contrast.
Here, too, there is little or no temptation. There, every one you meet
would be better off, better dressed, better educated than yourself, and
your life would be one of great temptation. In your place, Guy, nothing
should persuade me to go. But I do not forbid it. You are old enough to
judge for yourself, and I have never interfered, and never will. Do as
you like."
"I am glad, sir, that you don't forbid it. I am used to live poorly,
and I'll try not to care for what others do. It would be cowardly to
remain here, making the little there is less, when I can at least
support myself; and as to temptation, it finds one everywhere, and God
can keep me there as well as here."
"Oh, if you come to that!" said Mr. Egerton, quietly, and somewhat
contemptuously. And he walked out of the room, leaving them all free
to consult about Guy's outfit. And they had a fight over it, but only
because Guy would not lay out the whole twenty pounds on clothes at
once.
"No, no," he said; "it must take me to London, and support me there for
a time. I will not rob the beloved bag—it would break Clarice's heart.
In spite of my father's doleful prophecies, I mean to do my part in
filling that bag!"
Guy wrote to Dr. Majoribanks that evening, accepting the situation. His
time at home was very short, which was, perhaps, as well. Lizzie came
over to say good-bye, and gave him five pounds as her own and Donald's
parting gift; so Guy felt quite rich. Clarice kept sorrow at bay by
working hard, mending and making; there would be time enough to cry
when he was gone. She got Aymer to go to E— to make a purchase on which
her heart was set, a small Bible, as keepsake for Guy.
"Do read it often, Guy," she said; "and pray about what you read.
Though we can't understand all of it, we can find out what is right."
"Clarice, I shall miss you sorely; you have been my guide."
"Oh, nonsense, Guy! How could I guide you? But you have a Guide, you
know, a Friend from whom nothing but your own act can part you. He is
strong, and He loves you. Oh, don't forget Him, Guy! Cling to Him,
never forsake Him."
One who knew more would have urged the boy to attend church, to try to
make acquaintance with some clergyman who would take an interest in
him, to choose his companions carefully. But of all this, Clarice knew
nothing. All she knew was that in her Bible she had found her Saviour;
and the moment she began to speak of Him, the cloud of anxiety which
had rested upon her face disappeared, and her words came freely. Of all
worldly prudence, she was ignorant enough; but she knew and trusted
Him; no one could hear her speak of Him, and fail to see that, to her,
He was very real and very dear. All else that lay before her brother
was hid from her eyes, but the Master, to whose service he was vowed,
was clear enough.
"Don't think anything too small to ask Him about," she said; "until you
really trust Him in all things, you will never know what He can be to
you. Since I found that out, I have been so happy, Guy. When I am in
pain, I pray, and He makes me able to be patient: when I get fretful, I
pray, and He makes me able to hold my tongue: when I want to do things,
He helps me. Indeed, He seems always near, and so strong and loving. Do
try, dear Guy. I know you love Him, but try to never forget Him; and
then you'll be safe and happy, whatever happens."
"Pray for me often, Clarice. Your prayers won this opening for me, and
now they will be my safeguard. I'll try to remember, but I know you
will."
Neither of the speakers knew that their father had come into the room
while they were talking. He stood listening, with a doubtful look, and
now went away softly.
Guy left home next day. His absence made a terrible blank in Clarice's
life: all her natural strength and courage must have failed to support
her; but something supported her. She grew paler and thinner, and was
sometimes guilty of not hearing little Agnes's merry chatter; but she
never complained, and was as gentle and as ready to help as ever. She
little knew how closely she was being watched, nor how her stedfast,
cheerful patience surprised and puzzled the watcher.
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