CHAPTER X.

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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