GUY'S FRIEND, TOM PRICE.
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A YEAR passed quietly away, bringing no change to Ballintra, except in
baby Frank, who grew and prospered, the joy and the terror of Clarice's
life. Her joy, in that he was the prettiest, merriest, most coaxing
little fellow in the world: her terror, in that he was also the most
enterprising, with an innate love of climbing and scrambling, which
cost her many an uneasy moment.
Clarice did not forget her resolution to endeavour to get nearer to her
father; but, though she went on trying, she sometimes thought he was
rather annoyed than pleased. Her power of moving about had increased a
good deal, and she could get all over the house, even going up and down
stairs without much difficulty; but there the improvement stopped.
For some time after his departure, Guy wrote constantly. He was paid
regularly, and, by his own request, weekly; and by the most rigid
economy, he succeeded in saving money, every shilling of which was sent
home to be put in the "beloved bag." At about this time, however, he
began to write less often, though always affectionately; yet Clarice
somehow felt sure that he was neither so happy nor so hopeful as he had
been. Happy, perhaps, is not the right word, for Guy had made no secret
of his sense of loneliness, and of longing for the dear home faces;
but his letters had indicated a mind at rest, and hope for the future.
He had often praised his landlady, Mrs. Browne, yet now he spoke of
leaving her house. Matters were in this state, when one morning Mr.
Egerton received a letter from Mrs. Browne herself, which I shall copy,
as it is rather a curiosity. The writer was a poor struggling widow,
with a large family, and so her kind care for her young lodger is the
more to be admired.
"HONOURED SIR,
"Which it is but seldom I take pen in hand except to make out my small
account or write to my Willy that's at sea. So honoured Sir excuse
errors and so forth for I write because I do love that ansom boy and
can't abare to see him led away which led away he will be. It is
not because he must leave me Honoured Sir for one as never knew the
flaviour of her lodgers tea can always fill her house respectable,
though not to equall Mr. Egerton and that I will say.
"It is not his own doings but all along of a young gent that he has
got to know which for all his fine clothes and uppish ways is not a
real gent at all as Mr. Guy most truly is in all his ways. But this Mr.
Price has begun to come here and take Mr. Guy out in the evenings and
glad I was for the poor young man was fair pined for want of a little
fun. But now I see through him and it was for his own bad ends, for
sure I am he has borrowed money which pay he never will or my name's
not Martha Brown Italian Warehouse.
"Mr. Guy scarce eats nor drinks but spares every penny, and yet can't
pay his rent not that I am hurting for wait I can and will. He sighs
and looks so sad and last night I came on him sudden and he was crying,
but turned away his face being young and shamefaced. There is something
wrong Honoured Sir and excuse the liberty I have atook but could I see
the fine young gent go to ruin for want of a timely word and a bit of
help, and sure I am he wants both this moment and I am Honoured Sir
your servant to Command.
"MARTHA BROWNE.
"Don't let him know as I wrote if you please."
Mr. Egerton went to Clarice, and gave her the letter.
"Who is it from, papa?"
"The person with whom Guy lodges."
"Oh—is he ill?" cried Clarice, turning very white.
"No. Read it, and then you will know as much as I do."
Clarice read, and looked very anxious.
"What can be the matter?" she said.
"Surely it is plain enough! This young Price has led him into
extravagance—or, more likely, the boy has become weary of his miserable
existence, and is reckless."
"It is not that. I should know by his letters. Oh, if I could see him
for five minutes! What will you do, papa?"
"I?—Nothing. What can I do or say? I know it was a hopeless experiment;
he has tried it, and failed. Tell him to give it up, and come home."
"But, papa, do you never think what it will end in? If we all stay
at home doing nothing, what is to become of us? Yet we are your
children—do you not care, papa, if we beg or starve when you leave us?"
"Clarice, you forget yourself. I leave you the letter. Do as you think
best."
When Aymer and Helen came in, they had a long and anxious talk. It was
decided that Clarice should write to Guy, saying that she felt sure
there was something amiss, and begging him not to conceal any trouble
from those who loved him so tenderly. She even ventured to say that
perhaps he wanted a little money—further she dared not go, as she might
have betrayed Mrs. Browne.
Guy answered at once.
"MY DEAR CLARICE,
"I have amused Mrs. Browne, and she has confessed her sin. I knew she
was up to something, she was so supernaturally light-hearted and fussy.
Dear little woman, she has really done me a service—though not in the
way she intended. Your letter was such a cheer up to her, Clarice;
and it will cheer you all to know that I have only been a young
donkey—nothing worse. Now that you know anything, you had better know
all.
"I told you how kind Tom Price has always been to me. I made his
acquaintance at the place I go to for my dinner; lots of clerks dine
there. While the rest only stared at my country looks and coat, Toni
took me by the hand, and was really kind to me. But as far back as
May, he borrowed a few shillings from me. His father is well off,
and makes him an allowance besides his salary, so I fancied my money
was quite safe. He went on borrowing, however, until he got even the
money I had laid by to pay my rent; and now he has quarrelled with his
father, and left home, so of course he cannot pay. He stays with me
a good deal, and it makes my expenses mount up in the most wonderful
manner; besides, he borrows every shilling I can lend him. I know it is
foolish of me, but Price is the only friend I have made in London, and
but for him I should be terribly lonely. He takes me sometimes to meet
some friends of his, and we chat and play billiards a little. Latterly
I generally go with him, because the poor fellow is inclined to take
too much to drink, and I can keep him from doing it. When he goes home
(which I am trying to persuade him to do), his father will perhaps pay
me. I hope so, for I owe Mrs. Browne two months' rent, and must pay her
before I leave her. I shall get cheaper lodgings if I can.
"You will all think me very silly about Tom; indeed my conduct looks
silly, now that I have put it all down in black and white. But you do
not know the misery of not having a soul to speak to, and that was my
case; for Dr. M. never addresses a syllable to me except about my work.
Oh, Clarice, I have never let myself write it, but if you knew what
the loneliness is! What would I give for one of our cosy chats? I used
to think I would get you to come and live with me, for you could get
work here, and we could get on very well. But I am afraid I have proved
myself unfit to have the care of you. There is a little room off mine
where I could sleep. I shut my eyes and fancy you at the other side
of the table—but this is all nonsense. The 'beloved bag' will not be
the fatter for my savings until Tom pays me, or goes home and lets me
begin to save again. Now you know all about it, and don't, any of you,
make yourselves unhappy about me. Love to Aggie and a kiss to Frank.
Good-bye, you three.
"Your loving brother,
"GUY EGERTON."
When this letter reached Ballintra, the whole family were in the
parlour, dinner being just over. Clarice read it, and silently gave it
to Helen and Aymer.
Mr. Egerton looked up from his book and asked, "Have you heard from
Guy?"
"Yes, papa. Should you like to read it?"
"If you have no objection."
He read it, and gave it back to her, saying slowly, "Poor boy!"
"Father," said Aymer, "tell us what you think. You have lived among
men—you must be better able to judge than we can be."
"You know Guy better than I do. Is it certain that this is the whole
truth?"
"Quite certain," they all declared, with one voice.
"And what then can I tell you more than the unhappy boy has told you
himself?"
They looked at one another, puzzled.
At last Clarice said,—
"You think this Tom Price is a bad companion for him—is that it?"
Mr. Egerton sat for a few moments turning over the leaves of his book
absently; at last he said,—
"You are all of you wonderfully innocent and ignorant, no doubt. I
don't know that I am doing you a kindness in enlightening you. This
Price is a drinker, an idler, and a gambler. Finding Guy's handsome
face and well-sounding name of use to him, he is trying to make him
such another as himself. He has begun with billiards, but he will not
stop there. Guy does not seem to have learned the lesson as quickly as
I should have expected; but I do not see what is to save him unless you
can persuade him to come home. I almost fear he will refuse to do so.
In which case, his utter ruin is only a matter of time."
"If you knew that this was likely, why did you not warn him?" said
Aymer.
"I did warn you all. You would not believe me; but you know now that I
was right. Persuade him to come home if you can,—and—"
"And what?" said Aymer, hotly. "Work hard and live poorly, without a
hope or chance of better days!"
"Aymer, I see no good, no object to be gained by any of you, uneducated
and unfriended, risking yourselves."
Again Aymer interrupted him. "How is it to end?" he asked,
passionately. "If we all remain here, just living—what is to become of
us, father?"
"When I am gone, my family must do something for you," Mr. Egerton
answered, quickly. "For their own sakes, they must do it."
Then he got up and left the room.
Aymer was silent for a few moments, but then the bitterness of long
years broke forth.
"So!" said he. "To save his pride, we are all to live as best we may,
until at his death we are turned out of this place; and then we are to
be indebted to his fine relatives for help to grub on in the same way
somewhere else. I would sooner beg my bread from house to house!"
"And so would I!" said Helen.
"And we are to bring Guy home, to eat his heart out in idleness, or to
go to the bad for want of hope! To live the life that even I, dull,
plodding Aymer, feel to be hard lines sometimes. And this is all his
knowledge can suggest, though he sneers at our ignorance—his own work!"
"Aymer," said Clarice, gently, "believe me, papa is more to be pitied
than any one of us. Do not speak bitterly, for you will surely be sorry
for it by-and-by. Let us think of Guy—for I agree with you, he must not
come home."
"Well, Clarice, my opinion is this. Guy has done nothing wrong. He is
our own Guy still, loving and trustworthy. If he had you with him, very
little would Tom Price see of him after his work; he and you always had
company enough, if you were together over a book. You are well able
to get about now, and Frank is no longer a baby. We shall miss you,
Clarice—you don't know how much—but you'll be the saving of Guy."
"That's exactly what I think," said Helen. "It seems as if things had
come about on purpose to make it possible. What do you say, Clarice?"
"When I read this letter, I thought just as you do; then I put it away,
because I fear I should be but a dull companion for him, when he has no
other."
"You'll be just what he wants," said Aymer. "Some one to work for, and
to care for, and to welcome him home, and read with him. You'll go,
won't you, Clarice?"
"If you really think this—and if papa consents."
Both brother and sister exclaimed at this, but Clarice was steady to
her determination. Against his will she would not go.
Mr. Egerton, being told by Clarice that evening, made no objection. He
only said,—
"You cannot go alone; and where is the money to come from?"
"We have a little laid by, and Aymer will go with me."
"Clarice, I am not trying to dissuade you, but think this over before
you go. London will be very dreary to you, child. You will never get
out, remember; and the musty little rooms over a provision shop will be
a poor exchange for Ballintra, bad as this is."
"But, papa, do you think I should be of use to Guy?"
"You might be—yes, I think you might. He seemed very fond of you; and
to have you there was his own idea, I remember."
"And I love him so much, papa, that even if London kills me, I shall
think I have lived long enough, if I have done him good. I shall never
be anything but a feeble creature, not good for much—but if I save
Guy!" Her eyes filled with sudden tears.
Her father looked at her with a strange expression, and said,—
"Clarice, you are no fool. You know what you are going to. Aymer and
Helen realise only what they see, or they would never let you go; but
you are different; you do realise it. Are you really content to give up
all that makes your life tolerable, for that boy's sake?"
"More than content," she answered, earnestly.
"I see it is so, indeed, but I don't understand it," he muttered.
"Oh, dear papa! Forgive me this once. How can you understand it when
you shut your heart against the Love that left heaven for you?"
She was crying bitterly; and by the time she had dried her eyes and
could see again, her father had left the room.
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