"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.