"I believe it will be the means of saving my darling, for she took to the child at once. I have you to thank, Jane, and I shall never forget this."
"You never do forget any of us poor folk," replied Jane. "As to the children, it is just that 'like clings to like,' and all a mother's love cannot fill the place of playmate to her young ones. She must be content to see them happy, and find her reward in that way."
"If my poor words have put you on the right track, dear lady, the sight of your face has gladdened my very heart to-day, and not mine only, but the hearts of the many that have good cause to love you and yours."
Before night came the bright spirits of the stranger child had infected everybody, for she had flitted to and fro like a bird, asking names and questions about people and things, and compelled laughter from her constant companion, Margery. She insisted on having again the pretty frock that had been Dorothy's, and then on Margery's wearing hers too.
"Little sisters must be alike," said Clare, with such an air of authority that she had her way, and Margery's dainty frock was willingly put on, as the wearer said, "to please Dorothy." In her mind Clare and the dead sister were from that day ever united. She regarded her new playmate as Dorothy's gift, and to be loved and cherished in place of Dorothy herself.
When at length both children were wearied, and each was laid in her pretty bed, the couches had to be drawn close together, that Margery might still hold Clare's plump hand in hers—so slender by comparison—and, thus still linked, they slept peacefully.
Mrs. Austin looked at the children with a thankful heart, and whispered to Barbara—
"The little one's coming has worked like a charm on Margery."
"Aye, thank God. And yet I wish she had been the daughter of any man rather than Edward Austin. She is like a little witch; she gets over everybody—me amongst the rest, though I never thought I could bear to hold that man's child in my arms. I did, though, to-night; and she clung to me, and patted my face, and kissed me, till I could hardly let her go. And now she says that she will not put her black frock on again, and Margery must not either. What shall I do?"
"Dress her in Dorothy's clothes, and let Margery wear the ones she and her sister wore together."
Barbara was quite shocked at this order.
"Mistress, dear," she said, "her sister has only been three months dead! She should wear black for a year! It is not decent!"
"The doctor says far better not, Barbara. And what does it matter? We have our old fashions and fancies about wearing mourning, but surely it is of more consequence to save the child that is left, than to pay mere outward honour to the memory of one for whom human love can do no more!"
Barbara could only obey, but she did so with an uneasy feeling.
"I can see the cuckoo in the nest already," she said to herself. "Edward Austin's child has but just come under this roof-tree, and yet she has begun to rule everybody beneath it, from the mistress downwards. She will have her way, and she will get it; but it will be by witchery, and not by fair means. And to think she is only seven years old, but with a face of an angel, and a little tongue that would coax a hen off her nest. However, if my darling nursling's life is saved through the little witch, I shall forgive her, in spite of myself."
Barbara not only forgave, but soon found herself as much at the will of this strange child as did others at Monks Lea.
IT seemed strange that no after inquiry was made about Clare. Mrs. Austin wrote to Mrs. Allington, and told her of the child's safe arrival, and of the favourable impression she had already made. She described the meeting with Margery, and the immediate good which resulted from it, and announced her intention of keeping, educating, and ultimately providing for Clare.
"She will share every advantage with my own daughter, who is delighted with her new sister. To you I cannot sufficiently express my gratitude, for every one here shares my belief that Clare's coming will save Margery's life," wrote Mrs. Austin.
This letter never reached the lady to whom it was addressed. It was returned through the Dead Letter Office, marked, "Removed; present address unknown."
This incident made Mrs. Austin uneasy and anxious. Could she be the victim of a clever trick? The Mrs. Allington who had been the friend of Clare's mother was, she knew, a most unlikely person to lend herself to any imposture. But Mrs. Austin remembered that Barbara doubted the genuineness of the handwriting, and the letter promised in the telegram had never arrived. Could it be possible that Edward Austin was still living, and had first made himself acquainted with the state of affairs at Monks Lea, then planned to get his child installed there, with a view to using her in after years as a means of money-getting?
Without even telling Barbara, Mrs. Austin instituted private inquiries, and found that rooms in the house whence Mrs. Allington's letter was addressed had been occupied, but for a very short time, by a widow lady and her brother. That a very lovely child was with them, but only for a single night before they finally left; and it was said she had neither father nor mother, but was about to be adopted by a rich relative. The child was brought from some country place to London. The lady's name was Allington, that of her brother, Henry Marsh.
It was all unsatisfactory and perplexing. After receiving the information Mrs. Austin did not for a moment believe that her correspondent was the real Mrs. Allington, for she was not a widow, but the mother of a large family. When she wrote to Mrs. Austin, two years before, she was about to remove, and having no further business with that lady, she did not send her new address, so all trace of her was lost.
Some things that Clare said served to confirm the story told to Mrs. Austin. The child talked of the cottage where she stayed with papa, and of his being ill and going away for a long, long while; also of Mary, who took care of her, till a lady and a gentleman came for her, and put on that black frock and took her away. Then they put her in the train, and sent her to be Dorothy's sister.
Clare was a little chatterbox, and had plenty to say about poor papa, and the Mary who must have cared so well for her, and little playfellows whose Christian names she mentioned. But when all was put together it seemed rather to confirm what Mrs. Austin learned from other sources, and the one unsatisfactory portion was that which related to the lady and gentleman from whose hands she had received the child.
Having done all in her power to unravel the mystery, she told the result to Barbara.
"And a good thing it will be if you never know more of those people than you do at this minute, mistress dear," said the nurse. "You have made up your mind to keep Miss Clare; and seeing the good to Miss Margery, I dare not say you are doing wrong. Let those people keep away, then you can train the child to your own mind, and none can meddle or mar."
With which sentiments Mrs. Austin cordially agreed; and the matter was not again alluded to by either mistress or maid.
Ten peaceful years followed the arrival of Dorothy's Christmas gift at Monks Lea. Mrs. Austin had the happiness of seeing Margery's health entirely restored, and gradually the dark shadow caused by so many bereavements passed from the home. She resumed her old place in society, but, though often solicited, could not be induced to marry a second time. She devoted herself to the training of the two children, assisted by Ellen Paterson and various masters, until the time came when the rector's daughter went to preside over a home of her own. But that was not until Margery was nineteen, and Clare in her eighteenth year. The girls had been associated in everything, and were devotedly attached to each other; and yet, though Margery was the elder and the real daughter of the house, it was always she who yielded to the stronger will of Clare.
Both girls had excellent abilities, but Margery's were of the more solid kind, and she worked the harder to store her mind. She was also quieter and more self-contained—not one who gave her friendship to all corners, but once given, it could be relied on through good and evil fortune.
Let Margery be the companion of some specially gifted visitor, and he was certain to speak first of her intelligent sympathy as a listener, of her thirst for information, and then to be struck with the riches of her own mental stores.
"What a well-informed girl Miss Austin is!" he would say. "I did not suspect this until we had a talk; for she does not assert herself in the least."
Someone else would speak of the girl's thoughtful consideration, her unselfishness, her quickness in finding out what would please others, and her anxiety to give pleasure, even by sacrificing her own will.
The mother would listen with a look of proud affection, and reply—
"Yes; but only I can tell what Margery is—so true, tender, reliable, faithful at all costs to herself; so clever, and yet rendering to me the simple, prompt obedience of a little child. I think no girl combines such opposite excellences as does my Margery."
Clare was essentially different. Her beauty grew with her years, and was so unique in its style that, combined with her ready wit, it attracted and fascinated young and old. From the first it was amusing to see how she got her own way—sometimes by coaxing, at others by a pretty wilfulness that was hard to withstand; or again, by tears and pleading looks, expressive of such utter misery that even Barbara could not resist them, though she often indignantly declared that her "real little lady had to play second fiddle to the other."
Clare could turn the predetermined "No" into "Yes." She would sit demurely silent for a time, and then break out like a flash of sunshine, showing herself alternately witty, wilful, and tender, but always intensely fascinating. She seemed to be able to summon people to her side by the merest glance, and to make herself a centre of attraction to all the most desirable of Mrs. Austin's guests, whilst it fell to Margery's lot to entertain the less attractive.
She had such pretty ways of bestowing unexpected caresses on children, or on the wrinkled cheek of some old lady. She whispered a few sweet words, or gave a momentary look which made the recipients who gazed in those wonderful violet eyes feel as if an angel voice and vision had passed by them.
She was nearly everybody's confidante, and always a trustworthy one; but by dint of keeping other people's secrets she managed to preserve her own.
It was the custom at Monks Lea for Mrs. Austin to allow Margery and Clare to read all letters that were of common interest. Margery's were generally handed both to her mother and Clare, but the latter rarely reciprocated this confidence.
"I will read everything that concerns myself," she would say; "but I cannot tell Dora's secrets;" or, "There is a bit of family news that Nelly wishes me to keep back for a little while. You see, mother dear, they will trust me, so what can I do?"
She would look at Mrs. Austin appealingly, who would answer—
"You are quite right, Clare; never betray a trust, however unimportant it may seem."
"I knew you would say so; but I hate to keep anything from you or Margery." And she would spring from her seat and kiss them both, as if to make amends for her involuntary reticence.
From the time the two were children, Barbara Molesworth used to say, "Miss Clare will make many a heart ache before she grows up."
Clare shook her sunny locks, and treasured the remark in her memory, with a keen appreciation of its meaning. To Margery, on the contrary, it had a terrible sound, and she said—
"Nurse, I hope I shall never make any heart ache. I want to be like my mother, and then people will be made glad instead of sorry by what I do."
"Heaven bless you, my precious!" replied Barbara. "You frame to be like your mother. You will not carry your sunshine on your head only, but in your kind heart and loving lips, and you will share it alike with rich and poor. People will run after Miss Clare for her pretty face and ways, and she will say pretty words, too; but when they want deeds as well as words, or a friend on a dark day, they will come to you."
"But I love Clare, and I never want to take anything from her," was always the answer; and Margery meant it.
She took it as the natural thing that admirers should cluster round Clare, though they might have left her to do so. She excelled her adopted sister in many accomplishments, but she kept these in the background, that Clare's might be the more conspicuous, and the latter knew how to make the most of her own.
Both were musical, and had exquisite voices; but Margery's love was so genuine, her admiration of Clare so unselfish, that she would be content to accompany her, and to play the part of listener only, while others praised the singer, without knowing that the elder girl was hiding her light, that the other's might shine more brightly.
To exalt Clare cost Margery nothing; for true love effaces self, and she was the happier for the admiration so freely showered on her sister.
Yet some were indignant as they looked on, and blamed Mrs. Austin for allowing this. They were mostly people who knew that Clare was not her daughter. Many did not know it; for no difference was made between them, and Mrs. Austin spoke of both as her daughters.
"Miss Austin effaces herself," said a French lady who came regularly to Monks Lea to converse with the girls in her own language. "It would be well if she were more often seen apart from Miss Clare, who is charming, but a little of the actress, though I doubt if she knows it. It is her second nature, born in the child, who deems it her mission to please. And so she does; she delights every one; she makes them think well of themselves and of her. They go, believing she will love them always, and she—well, they pass from her mind, and others take their places, to be pleased and forgotten in turn."
This was a fair analysis of Clare's character. It was also much like the thoughts which passed through Margery's mind, only she did not put them into words. They were not mingled with any idea of blame.
"It is her nature," said Margery to herself; "and perhaps it is not to be regretted that she is able to make so many pleased for the time. I sometimes wish I could exercise the same charm, only I cannot love for an hour or a day. My misfortune is that I love too long and too well."
There was one result of Clare's fascinations that gave pain to the nobler nature of Margery. She could see that whilst Clare charmed and forgot so many of her admirers in turn, she caused no little suffering. "Perhaps," thought Margery, "she knows not what she does. But those bright eyes and winsome ways wound whilst they charm, and often the wound does not easily heal, or leaves a life-long scar."
It was true enough. Clare came off unscathed. She received attentions from many, was impartially fascinating to each individual of those who hovered around, ready to obey her commands or anticipate her wishes. She had sweet smiles and graceful thanks for each; but when men lost their hearts and tried to whisper love tales in her ear, her manner changed in a moment.
"You do grieve me," she would say, as her lovely eyes filled with tears. "I am so sorry. I try to be just the same to everybody. I never dreamed you could make the mistake of thinking that I encouraged anything of that kind. Forgive me if I have pained you; I never meant it. I am only a child—just turned eighteen—and far too young and foolish to think of marrying."
Probably the poor half-maddened suitor would say he did not wish to marry yet. He would wait her time; "any time, if she could give him a word of hope."
"But I cannot; it would be wrong. I do not feel in that way at all, and I shall not marry for years and years, if ever. Besides, I have a sacred duty to fulfil. Do you not know that I belong to Margery? I was sent to her as a Christmas gift from her dear little dead sister. I shall never leave Margery, and if she marries first, as she ought to do, being the elder, I must stay with mother."
All these pretty words would make the suitor more in love than before, and more despairing of ever deserving or winning such beauty and goodness as were combined in Clare Austin.
Barbara's prophecy, "She will make somebody's heart ache," was fulfilled again and again.
At length Margery ventured to speak to Clare on the subject—
"Clare," she said, "I do not think you would be wilfully cruel, but you are so very often."
"I, darling! What do you mean?" and Clare's face put on a look of mingled unconsciousness of wrong-doing and pain at Margery's accusation.
"You know what I mean. How can you do it. You lure people to your side with your beautiful face and sweet words and ways, and you see them getting fond of you—too fond for their own peace. Yet you never do anything to discourage or let them see that what is so serious to them, is mere trifling on your part. Nay, dear sister, hear me out. I am older than you, and graver, perhaps, for my years, but I am still young—barely twenty."
"I look at things with different eyes, and I think it is dreadful to draw men on for the petty triumph of refusing one after another; wicked to inflict wounds one cannot heal; cruel to triumph over bleeding hearts. Perhaps you have not seen things as I do. I think my own heart would almost break if I believed you capable of such conscious cruelty. For myself, I tell you that if I saw that a good man, whose affection I could not return, was beginning to care for me, I would use every means in my power to prevent him from laying bare his thoughts, and offering what I could not accept. Some girls can triumph over the number of their conquests. I would rather gladden the heart of one good, true man, than know that a thousand had ached on my account. I think sometimes that, because you have never known the meaning of love as you have taught it to many, you are unable to realize the pain you cause by your so-called kindness."
Clare listened with dilated eyes and a look of terror, whilst Margery spoke. As she finished Clare burst into a passion of tears and sobs. "I did not know," she cried. "I never meant to hurt any one. Can I be so wicked and cruel as you say? You must hate me, Margery; but I did not know, I only just tried to please everybody."
What could Margery do but try to allay the storm of weeping she had aroused, and to pacify Clare with assurances that she believed her?
Then Clare laid down on her pillow, exhausted with passionate tears, and through the night Margery could hear her sob in her sleep at intervals, like a frightened child; for Clare slept when her fit of weeping was over.
Margery lay awake most of the night, wondering if she had spoken wisely, anxious for the effect of her words, and praying that good might result from them, both to her sister and to others.
For one day Clare was pensive and thoughtful. There were dark rings round her eyes; she was silent and self-contained, and held herself aloof from such of her worshippers as came within her reach.
"I am not very well, and I want to be quiet! Please leave me to myself, it will really be kind," she said, when asked to join in any amusement. But she was secretly happy in the consciousness that she was an object of the deepest interest to the nicest people of several guests then staying at Monks Lea, and that she never looked more attractive than when her face wore traces of sorrow.
The next day Clare was her fascinating self again, the gayest at a garden party, and distributing smiles with her usual impartiality. Margery had no need to fear that Clare's spirits had suffered any lasting depression from her lecture.
MRS. AUSTIN was far too just to fail in the promise she had made, and too good a woman of business to defer the legal steps by which her adopted daughter's future would be provided for.
Margery, by her mother's marriage settlement, would be sole heiress to the Monks Lea estates, which brought in a large income. Mrs. Austin's personal property, which was very considerable, was entirely at her own disposal. This, with the exception of legacies to distant relatives, friends, and servants, she decided should, after her own death, be divided equally between Margery and Clare. If either should marry during her lifetime, Mrs. Austin was in a position to give her a handsome portion at once.
In the meanwhile the girls had each an ample allowance for personal expenses and charity purposes. They had been trained to think of the needs of others, whilst thankfully acknowledging the bountiful goodness of God towards themselves. Both girls profited by Mrs. Austin's teaching and example, and used well the money entrusted to them.
Clare might have her faults, her vanities, too great love of admiration, and a determination to indulge it at all costs. She might be an unconscious actress, according to the judgment of the Frenchwoman, or what Barbara called "close" with regard to her own little secrets; but she was tender where poverty and suffering came, and her sympathy was real and practical.
She gave willingly and liberally, if not always with sound judgment, and her tears at such times were marks of true feeling, whilst her kind words came from the heart, and doubled the value of her help.
In such labours of love Margery and Clare walked hand-in-hand and stood on equal ground.
There was much that was genuine and deeply loveable about Clare; but she gained credit for more than she really deserved, and Margery, except in the case of those who could see below the surface, for far less.
Another year had passed over the heads of the two girls, and Christmas was close at hand.
There was to be a large gathering of guests at Monks Lea, and there was every prospect of an exceptionally happy season.
Two of the guests—Mrs. Anstruther, widow of an old colleague of Colonel Austin, and her son, a captain in a cavalry regiment, and a young man of the highest character—came nearly a fortnight before the rest, and whilst Clare was absent from home.
Mrs. Austin was anxious to enjoy quietly the society of her friend, and to make the acquaintance of her son, who had lately returned from Africa, and of whom she had seen little for several years past.
So it happened that while the elder ladies talked of old times and compared experiences, Captain Anstruther and Margery were thrown a good deal together, apparently much to the satisfaction of the young soldier, who had of late been almost banished from female society of a civilized sort.
Margery was, as usual, perfectly unaffected. She did all in her power to promote the comfort and happiness of her mother's guests, and, as the elder people preferred the warmer atmosphere of home during the wintry days, Captain Anstruther and she were companions perforce in walks and rides, Margery being an accomplished horsewoman.
The girl never looked better than when enjoying her favourite exercise, which set her bright face all aglow with colour—the one thing it sometimes lacked to make it deserve the word "beautiful."
It seemed to have abundant attraction for her companion, and for the first time Margery listened to certain delicate compliments, and accepted from the handsome soldier more pointed attentions than she had ever before received without manifest shrinking and distaste.
The mothers noted the growing liking for each other's society in the young people, and smiled approval. Mrs. Austin knew that Margery would be a great heiress, whilst the young soldier was comparatively poor; but wealth was not all, and if her darling should find this brave officer and good son the man of all the world to fill the highest place in her affections, there would be enough for both.
Mrs. Anstruther felt that Margery's combined wealth and worth fitted her to expect to mate more highly than with a poor soldier. "But," she said to herself, "my son is in himself what neither wealth nor position could make him. He is worthy to wed a queen amongst women."
They understood each other, these mothers, without words.
During walks and rides Margery often talked of Clare, and at first regretted her absence. As the days went on, she looked-for Clare's return with something like dread.
Hitherto the elder girl had seen people leave her own side to cluster round the chair of her beautiful sister, and had taken it as a thing of course. "Every one must admire Clare, and be attracted by her charming ways. It was the natural thing." And no person was so proud of the fact as Margery, for Clare's sake.
But she felt differently about Captain Anstruther, and asked herself—
"When Clare comes, will he desert me, as others have done before? Does he follow me, and listen to my words, and watch to anticipate my wants, because he has not seen Clare? or does he really care for me?"
Not that Captain Anstruther had declared his affection for Margery. It was too soon for such a decided step; but if ever looks and actions were eloquent, his told that sweet Margery Austin had made a deep impression on his heart.
The girl had often spoken to Frank Anstruther about her lovely sister, and in her unselfish way told him of the admiration she always excited, and that he would be sure to love Clare.
"I shall," he replied, "if only because she is so dear to you."
The meaning tone and the look of frank admiration which accompanied these words, made Margaret's cheeks flush and her eyes droop shyly. But she felt very happy, with a joy hitherto unknown to her innocent heart, and she cherished her glad thoughts with reverent thankfulness. It was so sweet to feel that she was beloved, and by one like this brave young soldier! She thought he must be much like what her father was when he went with his tale of love to her mother.
Margery had always been accustomed to open her heart to her mother; but of this new happiness she could not speak even to her. Yet she thought that Mrs. Austin knew of it, and sympathized with and blessed her child in the unselfish way that true mothers show when they live their girlish days over again in those of their daughters.
When Margery went to rest that night she thought that her mother's arms had never before held her with such yearning love, or her kiss been so tender. The girl, with quick intuition, divined the reason. What if her mother were looking into the future, and dreading the thought of a possible parting? Wealth could do much, but when a girl took upon her such solemn new duties in another home the place in the old one must be vacated.
Mrs. Austin was so looking at possibilities, but while thinking of the trial it would be for her to part with Margery, she placed her child's happiness first of all, and would have rejoiced in her joy. On the following day Clare returned to Monks Lea. She was looking paler than usual, and there was an anxious, preoccupied expression on her face that no one had noticed there before. It passed away during the evening; but the girl was very quiet, and retired early, as many guests were expected on Christmas Eve, and she wished to be ready to help in entertaining them.
"I must have a good night's rest beforehand," she said, "or I shall be fit for nothing to-morrow. Christmas Eve is the most important anniversary in my life, for on it, eleven years ago, I came to this dear mother, sister and home."
Clare laid her head on Mrs. Austin's shoulder to be caressed; she kissed Margery and clasped her closely, as if she had forgotten the presence of Mrs. Anstruther and her son, though it was to the lady she had spoken of her first coming. Then she turned suddenly to Mrs. Anstruther, and lifted up her face to be kissed, saying—
"I know you are dear mamma's friend, so I hope you will adopt me as one of her children."
Lastly she extended her white hand to the captain, flashed a glance from her wonderful eyes, and was gone.
And Frank Anstruther, who had been urging Margery to sing for him before this little scene took place, remained in a dreamy state for some moments, replied to a remark of his mother's in an irrelevant fashion, and would have forgotten all about the song he had asked for, if Miss Austin had not recalled him to himself by beginning it.
He listened—no one could help it when Margery sang—thanked her, and mentally reproaching himself for his momentary abstraction, asked for more music.
Margery sang a second time, and then she spoke with pleasure of Clare's home-coming.
"Without my sister, Christmas would not be at all the same happy time," she said. "Was I not right when I said that Clare is lovely?"
"She is quite the most beautiful girl I ever saw," he replied enthusiastically. "Yet beautiful is not the word. Miss Clare is that and more. I never saw any one at all like her." Then he added, "In the face, I mean, of course. As yet all else is strange to me, except as revealed by the charming picture I witnessed a short time ago."
Margery could hardly tell in what it consisted, but there was a difference between the happy, frank intercourse of a few hours before and that of this evening. It seemed as though an invisible barrier had come between Captain Anstruther and herself. He was more silent than usual, and Margery went to her room with a sense of weight and pain that she vainly strove to ignore.
"What will Christmas bring?" she asked herself. "It is a fateful season to me. Eleven years ago it brought Clare and the beginning of a new life. Will this Christmas see a repetition of what has happened before? Will Frank Anstruther leave my side for Clare's? I have never envied her those who have gone before, and never cared except when they suffered. But if he too should learn to love her, and be treated as others have been—how shall I bear to see it?"
On her knees the girl pleaded—
"God give me grace to do right, patience to endure willingly, and to submit unselfishly and silently, if need be!"
At first Captain Anstruther struggled against Clare's fascinations, and remained by Margery's side, helping her with Christmas decorations, and apparently devoting himself to her service. But before night came he was one of a little group round Clare, laughing at her lively sallies and her almost childlike daring, and wondering at her marvellous beauty.
He took himself to task when he noticed Margery looking pale and distrait, though trying hard to appear as if she were listening to an uninteresting story, which was being poured into her ear by the one bore of the party. He resumed his attentions, remained by her side after having succeeded in ridding her of her companion, and, but that Margery noticed his eyes wandering towards the group he had left, the girl might have thought that no change had taken place, and that she still held the foremost rank in his regard.
Clare rallied Margery about her captain.
"I see how it is," she said, "you have conquered the gallant soldier whilst I have been away. I can understand his laying down his arms; but he is not half good enough for you, Margery, darling."
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HE RESUMED HIS ATTENTIONS, AND REMAINED BY HER SIDE.
"I do not know who is, for this sweet sister of mine is worthy the love of the best man in the world."
"Captain Anstruther is good," said Margery, blushing. "A good son, a brave soldier, and a true man; but you are mistaken, Clare, if you think he has ever spoken one word of love to me."
"He looked a thousand to-night, if he did not utter them. You shall keep your soldier for me, Margery, darling. He would not be my choice were he twenty times as good as you say." And she ran laughing away.
If she could have seen Margery's face after this! It flushed with the daintiest colour, and such a glad light came into the sweet eyes, that it was a pity Frank Anstruther was not there to mark it.
"I was not wrong then." Margery rather breathed the words than spoke them. "Clare sees that he cares for me best of all. She will not rob me of the one heart's love that I would fain call mine. Thank God!"
The girl fell asleep with a thanksgiving on her lips, to be aroused from her rest only when morning came, by Clare's light touch.
As each Christmas Day came round, it was the custom for the younger girl to awaken Margery with a kiss, whilst she whispered, "Here am I, darling. Dorothy's Christmas gift,—come with loving wishes for my sister."
Then they went together to Mrs. Austin's room to offer the season's greetings.
It was a happy Christmas after all. Clare had plenty of homage, but for that one day she held herself aloof from Frank Anstruther, without appearing to do it purposely, whilst the young soldier kept his old place near Margery.
So the weight was lifted from the loving heart, the cloud disappeared, and all at Monks Lea told of joy, peace, and good-will.
FRANK ANSTRUTHER left Monks Lea immediately after Christmas, but was to return on the last day of the year.
Mrs. Anstruther remained, as she had promised to spend the winter with her old friend, and had no settled home. She was a great traveller, and had only come to England because her son's regiment was ordered home, and she wished to be near him.
This arrangement involved the captain's frequent presence also, and it was understood that he would come to Monks Lea as opportunity offered.
Margery would not have looked forward so happily to his coming again, if she could have read his thoughts when he said farewell to her and the rest.
In fact, Frank Anstruther was far from feeling at ease. He knew that during the last weeks he had done everything but speak of love to Margery Austin, and until Clare came, with her bewitching face and manner, he had thought her the best, purest, most loveable of girls, and had striven to win her heart as a treasure beyond all price.
Now, whilst hating himself for the dishonourable sentiment, he was rejoicing that he had not committed himself in words, and would have given anything in the world to blot these last weeks from Margery's memory and his own. He blushed at the thought. He knew it was shameful to entertain it. He asked himself, "What will Mrs. Austin and my mother think of me?" And yet he could see nothing, care for nothing but Clare, and felt that Margery, mother, Mrs. Austin, and the world might judge him as they chose, if only he could win the prize for which so many were contending.
Frank did not yield at once to this mad impulse.
He fought the sternest battle of his life during the interval between leaving and returning to Monks Lea for the New Year; and he did not prove the victor, as on former occasions.
It was easier to slacken his attentions to Margery when they met again, for the Christmas guests who were still there were now shaken together, and more than one amongst these were ready to contend for the place he had occupied.
How gradually the change came about need not be fully described; yet Margery was the first to see that the old experience was being repeated, but with this difference, that the young beauty who had captivated so many hearts, only to reject them, had exchanged her own with that of Frank Anstruther.
To Margery this knowledge was terrible. So true herself, the selfishness and treachery of the girl to whom she had given an almost worshipping affection, and of the one man whom she had elevated into a hero and on whose truth she would have staked her life, wounded Margery to the core. She stole away to the old nursery, where she found her mother and her faithful Barbara together, and dropping on her knees beside Mrs. Austin's chair, she laid her head on her lap and wept bitterly.
It was so unusual for Margery to give way to strong emotion, that her mother was almost frightened by it. But Barbara said, "Let her have the cry out, mistress dear. It will be a relief. If tears and sobs were not given by God to ease overburdened hearts, they would just break."
The nurse was right, and following the delicate instinct which told her that mother and child would be better alone, she stole quietly from the room and left them together.
Not many words were spoken. Mrs. Austin's tears fell fast in sympathy with Margery's, and now and then she stroked the girl's shining hair, and whispered—
"My darling! My precious child! What would I not do for you?"
"I know, I know you are true, mother, and sometimes I think there is no one else to be trusted but you. Oh, mother, it seems that those who try to do right always come off the worst!" she wailed in answer.
"Not so, my darling. It may seem so in the hour of trial, but not afterwards. Sorrow and suffering dim our mental vision, as tears blind our outward sight. But God makes things plain to us in His good time, and in the meanwhile we have to wait and trust."
There needed no words to explain the cause of Margery's trouble. The girl knew that her mother had read her heart's story, and could divine the severity of the wound given not only to her tenderest affections, but to her sense of self-respect.
She looked pitifully in Mrs. Austin's face, and in a tone that went to her mother's heart said—
"Have I been to blame? You know all that passed before Clare came home. I am afraid when I think of that time."
"You need not fear, my darling. Captain Anstruther may have changed, but when he looks back and recalls that time, he can only feel that my Margery's words and acts were true, pure, and maidenly. Believe me, I would not say this to soothe your wounded feelings, or even to save your self-respect, were it not the truth. As to Anstruther and Clare—"
But here Margery's kiss closed her mother's lips.
"We will say nothing about them, dear. Such things are not premeditated, and our affections are not under our own control. It would have been far worse if poor Frank had learned to love Clare, and she had given him nothing but pretty speeches in return. You will smooth their path for them, mother darling, will you not?"
"How can I ever forgive, when I think of you, my very own child, suffering so cruelly?"
"Go farther back, mother, and think how Dorothy's Christmas gift came to bring me new life, and of all the blessed years we spent together before there was any question of rivalry in love. There is none now."
"Oh, Margery! There is no girl like you for unselfishness. Mrs. Anstruther is dreadfully pained; the knows your value, my darling, if Frank does not."
"I think he does, in a way, too. And in future I mean him to know it better still, by being the best of sisters to him as well as Clare. He has none of his own. But do not let Mrs. Anstruther know. I could not bear for any one but you, mother—"
Such a wistful, pleading look was Margery's, as the big tears gathered again, and the trembling lips refused to form another word.
"No fear, my darling. Mrs. Anstruther, dear old friend as she is, must feel that hers is all the loss. But how are we to hide our trouble?"
Margery smiled through her tears at the word "our."
It was true that she could have no pain her mother would not share.
"By trying to lighten some other trouble," she answered. "I will go to my room, bathe my eyes and rest awhile. Then I will walk to the village and visit some of my poor friends there. An hour by one bedside you know of, mother, will make my trial seem light."
Margery carried out her intention, and came back to Monks Lea in time for dinner, but she did not join the rest at table. She pleaded weariness, and said she would go to Barbara in the nursery, and have tea brought there instead. Later she might feel fit for society. At one time Clare would have insisted on bearing her company, but conscience was not at rest, and she could not muster courage to be alone with Margery, whose pallor was a mute reproach, though she spoke in her usual tone and smiled in her sister's face.
But the girl had to run the gauntlet of her old nurse's sympathy. Barbara loved Clare, but she regarded Margery as an impersonation of all excellences, and "her own real young lady," who ought to be first in everything.
She placed Margery in the cosiest corner, waited on her and coaxed her with little tea-table dainties, and then, seeing that she had only made a pretence at a meal, she broke down and cried.
"I knew how it would be, my darling," she said. "Miss Clare has turned out a cuckoo in the nest, as I told the mistress would happen if she took in the child of that fair-spoken, false-hearted Edward Austin. The cuckoo turns out the young sparrows or tit-larks, and takes their places, and Miss Clare has robbed you of yours."
"Not of my home, Barbara. I am more likely to stay in the old nest than ever. She cannot help being so fair and stealing all hearts. Besides, I love her."
"She might help being false, though, and having her secrets and her meetings with people, and getting letters unknown to you or my mistress. She has always been close and had her secrets."
Margery thought Barbara alluded to meetings with Captain Anstruther, but the nurse undeceived her.
"They have been going on ever since Miss Clare came back from her visit. She has gone to the post office for letters, instead of having them brought in the bag to the house, and only last night I saw her steal into the shrubbery all muffled up. I followed as quickly as I could, but I had to go roundabout, so as not to be seen, and by the time I got near enough she was just parting with two persons, a man and a woman. I did not go to listen, for I was only afraid of Miss Clare coming to harm, but I did hear her say, 'Be at this same tree to-morrow, at nine. I will come as soon as possible, and bring you all the money I have.'"
Margery's face turned pale as she heard nurse's story. In what trouble could Clare have involved herself, that she should need to bribe these unknown persons?
"We must protect my sister from herself," she said. "I will send a message, and ask to be excused from going to the drawing-room. My mother will be satisfied. Clare is certain not to come here, and then you and I, Barbara, will muffle ourselves in wraps and be at the meeting-place before the others."
Barbara agreed, and the plan was carried out, the thick shrubs and a moonless night favouring concealment.
Margery and the nurse saw the strangers step into a little alcove, and shortly after Clare came from the house and joined them. The watchers could only discern the figures, not the faces, but they heard the chink of gold as Clare handed something to the man.
"Here are twenty-five pounds," she said, "all I have at present, but I will do my best for you if you will wait a little. I may be wrong in giving you this, but, if you are really my father—"
"Do you doubt it, pretty one, after all I have told you?"
"I don't know what to believe," said Clare, in a tone of distress. "You say you deceived dear mamma with a tale of your death, because you wanted me to be brought up in her beautiful home and have a child's place here, and you knew she would not adopt me if she thought you were living."
"That is true, dear child," replied the man, softly. "I had not been the best of men or of husbands to your poor mother, but I wanted my Clare to have what I could not give her. I loved you dearly, and I always meant to reclaim you some day. It would be hard for me to be deprived of you now, when I can have but few years to live, and I have a home, though a very humble one compared to Monks Lea. Besides, now you are a grown-up young lady, some suitor may be seeking your hand, and that shall not be given without your father's sanction."
The girl gave a cry of distress when she heard this, but the man answered it by a mocking laugh.
"What! Is there already a favoured one? Then no time must be lost. As to this trifling sum you have given me, child, it is not worth naming. If Mrs. Austin wishes for your society now, she will have to pay for it, and only retain it on my terms."
"You could not be so wicked as to take me from her," said Clare, in an agonized tone; "and to want money, when I owe so many happy years to her and Margery. I will leave Monks Lea and all—yes, all it holds—rather than be used as a means of threatening her or extorting money from her."
Here spoke Clare's nobler nature, and Margery rejoiced that she was at hand to hear it. But she and Clare were alike unprepared for what followed.
"You are right, my child, and I will take you at your word," said the man; and, seizing Clare, he threw a thick shawl over her head, and with the help of his companion was going to drag her away.
But in a moment Barbara's tall figure was behind him, and she pinioned the man with her strong arms, whilst she called aloud for help.
This came sooner than she expected, in the shape of two of the gamekeepers, who were on their rounds. Amongst them they secured the man, but the female had managed to make her escape. Clare was supported to the house in an almost fainting state and taken to her room.
As soon as Barbara saw the face of the prisoner in a full light, she exclaimed, "This is not Miss Clare's father; I have seen Mr. Edward Austin too often to be mistaken."
She confronted the man, and though he at first tried to assert that he was Clare's father, he soon found that this would be useless.
This evening's adventure cleared up once and for all the mystery of Clare's introduction to Monks Lea.
After the death of his wife, Edward Austin lived for some months in a quiet country place a few miles from London, where he had a cottage, and a respectable, middle-aged woman to keep house and take care of the child—she was the Mary of whom Clare talked when she came to Monks Lea.
The quiet, however, did not long suit a man like Edward Austin, and a considerable legacy enabled him to resume his old life. He left Clare at the cottage, and went to Wiesbaden, where he met a brother and sister, named Henry and Laura Marsh. They became intimate, and eventually the lady became Edward Austin's second wife.
The money which had come to him was sufficient to make the marriage a desirable one to Miss Marsh, who was dependent on her brother, especially as Edward Austin's tenure of life seemed likely to be short. He was in delicate health, and during his one year of married life, he never returned to England, but died suddenly whilst wintering in the Riviera.
His widow's first object was, with her brother's help, to get rid of Clare and turn everything that was left into money.
The two knew of the distant relationship to Colonel Austin, and the death of all the children at Monks Lea except Margery. Hence the letter, signed as if sent by Mrs. Allington, and Clare's unexpected arrival at Newthorpe. No wonder Mr. Marsh and his sister made no inquiry about the child, because, unknown to her, they saw her deposited on the platform, having travelled from town in another compartment of the same train.
A singular chance, which need not be here related, had thrown Clare into company with her father's widow, during her absence from home.
Mr. Marsh, being in pecuniary difficulties, conceived the idea of passing himself off as her father, with a view of extorting money from the girl first, and, if possible, from Mrs. Austin also. He induced his sister to show Clare certain papers and articles, which left no doubt on the girl's mind that her father had married Miss Marsh. She knew nothing of the circumstances attending his death, and could only remember that she had been told of it after he had been long absent from her and Mary.
Henry Marsh's trumped-up story and pretended claim upon her were an afterthought, born of his impecunious condition. Mrs. Edward Austin first induced Clare to arrange for a clandestine correspondence by mysterious allusions to a coming revelation; and then brought her brother, whom the girl had not previously seen, to meet her in the shrubbery at Monk's Lea, where he pretended that she was his daughter, and told his tale.
Thanks to Barbara's watchfulness and courage, the girl was rescued and the impostor exposed.
As no good end would have been attained by punishing Henry Marsh, and there was no possibility of his repeating the experiment, he was allowed to depart. Newthorpe saw him no more, and all that had been mysterious in connection with Clare's coming was cleared up to Mrs. Austin's satisfaction.
Clare was lying ill in her own room two days later, for the shock of that encounter in the shrubbery had been such as to keep her in bed ever since.
Mrs. Austin and Margery were by her side, when all at once Clare looked at them with an expression of pain and penitence on her face, and said, in a trembling voice—
"Can you ever forgive me? Mamma, I ought not to be here. I should not have experienced the anxiety, or known the terror those dreadful people caused me, if I had been like Margery, and always opened my heart to you. But I have done with secrets and concealments. I have had a lesson which will last my life. Say you forgive me, dear, dear mother!"
There could be no doubt the girl was in earnest, and Mrs. Austin pressed a forgiving kiss on her lips.
"And now may I speak to Margery all by myself?"
Mrs. Austin assented, and left the girls together.
"Margery, darling, you know—you know!" cried Clare, and then, covering her face with her hands, as if unable to look at her sister, she sobbed bitterly.
"Yes, I know," said Margery, softly.
"I could not help it, Margery, and he could not. It came upon both of us against our wills; I do not know how he could care for me when you were near; for you are a thousand times more deserving of love than I am. But if—if you thought him good, it is no wonder I should, though it was hateful and wicked, after what I said to you, Margery darling. Now I have quite made up my mind to ask mamma to send me away somewhere with Barbara, so that I may not see Captain Anstruther any more. I give him up to you, Margery, and I do hope you will be happy yet, and poor Frank, too."