CHAPTER II.

A PLEASANT HOUR.

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CLARICE EGERTON was the fourth child of the couple who so rashly settled themselves in Ballintra. The three children who were born before her were very like their mother in appearance. But Clarice was an Egerton, and, more than that, she was lovely Clarice Egerton over again; and for this reason, she was the only one of his children of whom Guy Egerton ever took the slightest notice.

Time and disappointment had not improved him. Long before the birth of his fourth child, he had discovered that farmers are not born ready-made, or that if they are, he was not one of the number; and he had bought this piece of knowledge at the expense of every penny of his wife's money, besides getting into debt and living in a scrambling fashion, which was a continual misery to him.

His lovely little baby-faced wife was even more changed than he. She was so young at the time of her marriage that she had actually grown since then, and was now a tall, pale woman, with a few silver threads in her abundant light-brown hair, and a sad pair of blue-grey eyes looking out from a face no longer young. Poor, pretty Elise! She had long ago discovered that she had nothing in common with her husband, and that he had not that love for her which would have drawn them together. He was never unkind, but he rarely spoke to her.

His time, when in the house, was spent in reading (he had plenty of books, for he had been all his life buying them, and his brother had sent them to him some years before this), writing, and dreaming; and, for any good he did when out about the farm, he might as well have spent all his waking hours in these more congenial pursuits.

Elise never complained. She possessed a wonderful force of character, and more cleverness than her husband ever gave her credit for, in proof of which I may mention that she learned English so thoroughly that no one would have suspected that it was not her native language, and that she taught herself enough to enable her to teach her children, and this without other help than the use of good books and an occasional question asked of her husband. She never complained, as I have said, but she watched and observed; and, being a peasant by birth, she often felt sure that she could have managed the farm better than her husband did.

But, at first, he would not allow her to do anything—there were servants to do the work, and she must learn to be a lady. But those days were long past when Clarice was born. One elderly, rough-looking woman—Katty Simnott by name—formed the whole establishment then, and Katty had become so fond of "the misthress an' the children, God bless them!" that I believe she considered herself one of the family. As to her master, she was wont to remark that "Shure he was nawthin' on earth but an English Omadahn, and what would yez expect ov him?"

Little Clarice was named after her long-lost aunt by her father's desire; and a lovely, healthy, noisy creature she was. The next child was a boy, and, like Clarice, he was an Egerton in appearance; but beyond giving him his own name, Mr. Egerton (as I must now begin to call him) never took the least notice of him. Clarice was the only child he ever did notice, in fact.

Soon after Guy's birth, Mr. Egerton had a severe illness—acute rheumatic fever—and it aged him terribly. His hair grew grey, and this, with his stooping figure, made him look quite old—very much older than did his father, who still flourished at Egerton Highfield. When Mr. Egerton recovered, he told his wife that he intended to let the farm, either for grazing, or, what they call in Ireland, by con-acre: which means that several poor men join to take a field, of which each of them cultivates his own proportion.

"I cannot struggle on any longer, Elise," he said. "I lose by everything I undertake, and I can get thirty shillings an acre for the moorfields, and forty for about twenty acres. And there will always be the house and garden—though, indeed, the latter is of no value to us."

Elise saw her opportunity.

"Do not let the garden on any account, Mr. Egerton," she said eagerly, "nor the lawn."

"The lawn!" he repeated. "Why, there are eight acres in the lawn. I think I had better let it. The children can play there as usual, you know."

"Yes; but I could keep a cow, Mr. Egerton, and other things. And what shall I do without milk for the children? Leave me the lawn, the garden, and the peat bog, and let me do the best I can. You know I am not a helpless fine lady; I know about these things, and Katty will help me. Aymer is growing fast, and he is very strong; he will soon be of use: and as so much of what you will get for the land must go to pay the interest on our debts, I must work for the children."

Mr. Egerton looked nearly as black as his father could have done, and he answered very coldly, "You really think that you are likely to succeed where I have failed?"

This was exactly what Elise did think, but she only answered gently,—

"I do not mean to attempt so much, you know; and I was born among such work, and know about it."

"I had hoped you had forgotten that. You might at least let me forget it."

"I would gladly forget it," she answered, firmly, "if it did not mean bread for my children."

"Perhaps you even think that if I gave up the farm to you, instead of letting it, you would make a fortune?" he said angrily.

"No; there is no fortune to be made out of this wild place, but bread may be. I have no capital to farm, but I can and will feed my children. Let me do it, Mr. Egerton. I have never complained, but do not deny me this."

"It shall be as you will," he said, sullenly. "You shall have the lawn, the home field, the garden, yard, and orchard."

"And the turf bog?"

"Very well. This decreases my number of acres for letting very considerably; but the responsibility, is yours. I have nothing to do with it, remember."

Which was exactly what the poor woman wanted, for nothing seemed to prosper in his hands. But if anything was wanting to complete his alienation from his wife, this did it very effectually. He might have forgiven her if she had failed; but she succeeded, and her very success maddened him. He became more silent and absent than ever; read and wrote, and wandered out by the river, neither noticing nor caring for anything that was going on. Her tender care for his comfort never won a smile from him, and even little Clarice was no longer noticed.

Everything fell into her hands by degrees, and by exercising a strict economy, and as much as possible keeping house with her farm and garden produce, her eggs and chickens, her milk and butter and cheese, she even contrived to pay off some of the debts.

Her time was fully occupied, and the three elder children were becoming very helpful; all things were prospering in her hands. But a terrible misfortune happened when this simple, hard-working life had been going on for about eight years, during which time Mr. Egerton had become completely confirmed in his moody, unsociable ways—a misfortune which cost poor Elise many bitter tears, and my pretty Clarice life-long suffering; and yet a misfortune which most certainly was the greatest blessing which ever befel the family at Ballintra. That is a strange assertion, is it not? Yet if you read this story, I think you will acknowledge its truth.

Aymer was now a fine, sturdy, strong fellow of fourteen; Elise, or, as they all called her, Lizzie, was twelve, and Helen eleven. Clarice was just nine, and little Guy was so like her, and so nearly the same height, that they looked like twins; there was also a little girl baby in arms.

Aymer was now the principal gardener, and with the two girls under his command, had been working in the garden all the pleasant, breezy May morning. After dinner, he asked his mother if he might take all the children in his boat to the other side of the river—for the silver Slaney ran by the end of the lawn, and Aymer had a small flat-bottomed boat, which he found very useful in fishing, and a row in it was a grand treat to the rest of the family. The other side of the river was a delightful spot: rooky, full of trees, ferns, and wild flowers of every description; and as there was no bridge within many miles, and the river, though in its infancy, was yet not fordable, this lovely spot had all the charms of comparative novelty.

Great, therefore, was the acclamation when mother was heard to say, "Very well, Aymer; but don't take more than two over at the same time, and don't take Clarice and Guy together. I am always afraid they will upset the boat with their wild ways."

Aymer promised obedience, and the two children raised a yell of delight, which sank into silence in a wonderful hurry as their father entered the room. He seldom spoke to them, and never scolded or punished them, but in their merriest moment, his appearance would work a wonderful change in their demeanour.

Hats and baskets—the latter to bring home primroses, cowslips, wood-anemones, and any foolish little fern which might have been tempted to uncurl himself thus early, were soon snatched up, and away went the whole party down the steep green lawn, bounding, shouting, and chasing each other right merrily. Elise Egerton stood at the door and watched the crossing of the river. Guy was first ferried over, with steady Lizzie for a companion; then Helen with Clarice.

As Clarice jumped into the boat, she caught sight of her mother, and waving her hat in the air, her dark curls flying wild in the spring wind, she called aloud,—

"Have a hot cake for tea, mother; we shall all come home so hungry!"

"Sit down, child; sit down!" cried Elise, making a sign to the wild little lassie. "You'll fall into the water."

Clarice sat down,—in fact, Helen pulled her down; and away went the boat. Elise Egerton never saw her pretty Clarice stand upright again.

Primroses were plentiful: Clarice said they were like stars in a dark sky, and Guy, being of a literal turn, said that the sky never was green, that he could see.

"For all that, they are like stars," said Clarice, filling her basket with them as fast as she could; "and I've more stars in my basket than you have, Guy."

"Wait a bit," said Guy.

Soon the baskets were full. And sitting down to rest, Lizzie made a thick wreath, with a plait of rushes for a foundation, all stuck full of primroses; then she got up and came behind Clarice and put it on her head. Clarice's hat was not in the way in the least; she had left it in the boat.

"Isn't that becoming?" said Lizzie, turning up the beautiful little flushed, sunburnt face, that Helen might see it.

"Oh, Clarice is the beauty of the family," remarked Helen, gaily.

"I'd rather have nice light hair like yours," exclaimed Clarice, "and then Katty wouldn't call me a gipsy! What does she know about gipsies, though? There are none in Ireland."

"Are you sure of that, Clarice?" asked Guy, earnestly. "Oh dear, what a pity! For I'm writing a story all about gipsies, and I meant to make them live in the rooks here, and come over and steal our chickens."

"I'd like to catch them!" said Aymer, who was lying on his back half asleep.

"Have you got the story in your pocket, Guy?" inquired Lizzie. "I should like to read it."

"No, it's at home. And you couldn't read it. I can't read it myself—only I know what I mean." And Guy stood on his head for a moment, as a delicate hint that the conversation was becoming prosy.

"You can describe this place, Guy, and say it's in England," said Clarice, with a fine disregard for literary accuracy. "Don't stand on your head, Guy! Mother says I must not, and so you shan't. Now I'll tickle your feet, mind, if you don't stop."

"Don't be an iron," answered Guy, meaning a tyrant. "One iron's enough, and Katty says papa is a rale one."

"Guy, hold your tongue!" cried Lizzie and Helen in one breath. "You must not speak so of papa."

"It was Katty said it, not me. Come along, Clarice, and I'll show you where the gipsies were to have lived."

Clarice seized her basket, and off went the two allies; and their pleasant laughter was heard for some time by the grave seniors as they sat quietly on the bank of the river.

"Think of Katty saying such a thing before Guy!" remarked Lizzie. "I wonder if I ought to speak to her. I would tell mother, only it would vex her."

"Leave it alone," growled Aymer. "People will talk, and Guy will find it out for himself soon enough."

"Oh, Aymer! But he's our father!"

"I can't help it. I wish I could! I'd rather have one of the common day-labourers for my father—one who would work for his family and behave himself. There, girls, never mind, only don't talk to me any more about it."

Aymer was a very silent fellow, and it was but seldom that his sisters got a glimpse of his feelings: but there was a bitterness in his voice now which startled them. He sprang up from the ground, saying,—

"It is getting late; come along, girls. I want a stout ash stick, and it will be a pleasant walk to the plantation."

The girls hid their baskets in a quiet corner, and they all set out for the ash plantation. Having cut a stout sapling, they walked slowly back, and were gathering up the basket and wondering where the children were, when they heard a cry of distress.

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