CHAPTER XI.

GUY'S FRIEND, TOM PRICE.

[Illustration]

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.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]