Whatever might be lacking in the articles exhibited on this occasion would be made up, it was hoped, by certain festivities which were to accompany it. A special entertainment, a kind of house-warming, was to take place, and guests of every degree to be hospitably entertained in accordance with their several positions.
"And it is good of him to do all this," said Miss Chatterton to everybody. "Mr. Mitchelson is so delightfully ready to profit by, and act upon, a hint from a neighbour."
If Rathbury folk had not known Miss Chatterton, they might have been deluded into thinking that to some judicious hint of hers the approaching festivities were all owing, and that she was at the helm of Rathlands' affairs, turning its master wheresoever she listed. Whatever they might believe, there is no doubt she thought she possessed great influence, because Mr. Mitchelson Was too polite to run away when she had actually compelled his attention in the first instance; but, like other Rathbury folk, he soon acquired preternatural sharp-sightedness, and when Miss Chatterton appeared in the distance, he disappeared, with all possible rapidity, in the opposite direction. And, like everybody else in Rathbury, Mr. Mitchelson felt not a little thankful that, however sharp-sighted the elderly spinster might be in some respects, Nature had rendered her physically unable to see far beyond the tip of her very aquiline and aristocratic nose.
Few people, however, judged that Miss Chatterton had any malice in her composition. She was generally regarded as being a little too much inclined to pry into her neighbours' affairs, and to repeat what concerned them with unnecessary freedom; a little too ready to lecture the poor, even while relieving them; and forgetful that a cottage and a palace are equally the castle of the English man and woman abiding therein.
Rathbury folk had not yet gone far below the surface of Miss Chatterton's feelings, and, perhaps, of all who knew her, Elsie Manning had formed the truest estimate of her character.
There is a sort of instinct in us which rouses a feeling of suspicion, dread, or antagonism towards certain individuals. Is it not a species of armour, Divinely bestowed, to enable us to protect ourselves against attacks of a sort too subtle to be met by ordinary means?
The writer can of course read the minds of his characters, and this is what Miss Chatterton said to herself: "Mr. Mitchelson is looking out for another wife, and, if I am not mistaken, it will be one of the Priory girls. The youngest, most likely, for she is so like his dead wife. That match would just suit Mrs. Manning, but I think the course will not be quite so smooth as she anticipates. I should like to put a little something in the way which will disappoint both mother and daughter."
"If only Mr. Gilmour were back again. I dare say Miss Elsie thinks I did not see the flutter of her white dress as she escaped by the window when I called at the Priory. Perhaps she fancies I was too far off to know anything of the parting at the gate when Mr. Gilmour held her hand so unnecessarily long, and bent his head so low, to whisper his good-bye. Miss Elsie's cheek was rosy enough, though to most eyes there was nothing special to be seen. Near-sighted I may be, but one does not need spectacles for what is going on under one's very nose. My going into the lodge to ask after Mason's sick child was a most fortunate circumstance, for which I feel quite thankful."
"And Mrs. Manning, too! Giving herself airs, when, just in a joking way, I said a word or two about Mr. Mitchelson being a good match; as though I could not see through her and her plans! Poor old Mr. Manning! I dare say he thinks his sister-in-law perfect, and the girls angels, in all but the wings. Ah! No doubt they are all counting on their shares in the old gentleman's money-bags. It would have been well for him if, instead of adopting a family in that wholesale way, he had chosen some good sensible woman of suitable age, and married again."
Perhaps, without going further into Miss Chatterton's thoughts, we may be able to guess what was the bitterest drop in the full cup of grievances which Mrs. Manning and her family had, quite unconsciously, prepared for that lady's drinking.
SHOW-DAY came at last, and Miss Chatterton, albeit she did not like to be unfashionably early, was quite unable to restrain her anxiety for a few moments' talk with Mr. Mitchelson, and to see the arrivals.
"I am too soon, I know I am," she said, with an apologetic tone and coaxing manner; "but, dear Mr. Mitchelson, you will forgive an old woman, to whom a bustle is naturally a trial. It is so very pleasant to see the people dropping in, one or two at a time, instead of elbowing one's way through a crowd. Not that in such a place as this, and with such perfect arrangements, there can be any crowding; but you know what I mean, I am sure, and can sympathise with a person of my years."
Miss Chatterton liked to speak pathetically of her years, though she would have objected to this being done by any other person.
Mr. Mitchelson was too polite, and too politic also, to give offence to one in whom he recognised considerable powers of mischief. He answered, with much tact, that no one but Miss Chatterton herself would think of pleading her years as an excuse for avoiding a gathering of the kind, especially when her daily activities amongst the poor were taken into consideration.
Miss Chatterton looked pleased. "You are very good to allude to them; a person of my years, and with comparatively small means, can do but little. Still, the 'willing mind,' you know—I declare, here come the Priory people. Not at the gate yet—" for the master of Rathlands gave a little forward movement. "They are only just entering the drive, but thanks to some new eye-glasses, I can see as far as other people to-day. Perhaps even farther than some people," she added, with a knowing look. "What a pity our Mr. Gilmour is not back! I am afraid our pretty Miss Elsie's thoughts will be wandering 'to Norroway, to Norroway,' instead of being kept within even the wide bounds of Rathlands. But I ought not to tell secrets, only I did happen to be in the lodge when the young clergyman went from the Priory gate, poor fellow! And cast such longing, lingering looks at the fair damsel who—"
"I really must be excused, Miss Chatterton; my guests are coming in quite rapidly," said Mr. Mitchelson; and once more Miss Chatterton was left without a listener, though by no means ill-satisfied at the result of the shaft she had already let fly.
She had a good deal of the wisdom of the serpent, and knew the effect of hinting at much, and absolutely revealing very little.
For once, however, Miss Chatterton had made a grand mistake. Mr. Mitchelson had never for a moment thought of Elsie Manning as a future mistress for Rathlands. The very fact of her likeness to his dead wife would have stood in the way, even had his affections been perfectly free; but even in the few short weeks since his arrival at Rathbury, he had found a magnet which drew him to the Priory.
The magnet was the elder sister, not Elsie, and Mr. Mitchelson was taking every opportunity of finding out whether the mind and disposition of Mrs. Manning's second daughter corresponded with the fair exterior which had so attracted his attention. He wanted not merely a mistress for his house and a graceful hostess to sit at the head of his table, but one who should help him to turn to good account the wealth of which God had made him a steward. For the first time since the death of his young wife, a new image had stolen into his heart, but on that day no observer could have guessed this.
Courteous and attentive to all his fair guests, Mr. Mitchelson was most careful to do nothing which might gratify prying eyes or give food for gossiping tongues to occupy themselves upon.
There were some things which even Miss Chatterton's new eye-glasses did not permit her to see, some persons into whose thoughts she was unable to glance, and whose intentions she had utterly mistaken. Her blunder was only the beginning of the little chapter of misunderstandings which commenced on that day, and which might have spoiled the future happiness of several lives.
To the astonishment of everybody, Mr. Gilmour arrived at the Park rather late in the day, and quite unexpectedly. The fishing had been unsuccessful, owing to bad weather, heavy rains, and flooded rivers; his friend had been summoned home, and, as only a few days remained of the term of absence originally agreed on, they determined to return together.
Uncle Edward, who had stolen away from Rathlands Park to enjoy an interval of refreshment, was dozing in his easy chair at the Priory when Mr. Gilmour was announced. The kind old gentleman's eyes beamed at the sight of his favourite, who began to apologise for having disturbed his nap.
"My dear Gilmour, do not say a word; I never was more glad to be aroused from sleep in my life. I was actually dreaming a most unpleasant dream, and I wake to see the man of all others whom I most wished for standing before me. It is absurd for a man at my time of life to be eating at irregular hours in refreshment tents and going in for floral exhibitions; no wonder I had evil dreams. Of course, you have heard what is going on? promised to go back to the Park after a rest, and you shall go with me. I quite reckon on making you acquainted with Mitchelson, who also looks forward to knowing you. We will drive to the gates, and then you shall give me your strong arm to lean on, and tell me what you have been doing with yourself since you left us."
Nothing loth, Mr. Gilmour accompanied his old friend and—shall it be said? All the more willingly because, by so doing, he would sooner see again the sweet face towards which his mind's eye had been turning longingly ever since he parted from it at the gate.
Elsie was one of the first they met—Elsie and Mr. Mitchelson together. By one of those chances, if we may call them such, that sometimes alter destinies, the giver of the festival was in the act of escorting her to see the contents of a tent which had escaped her notice, and in which were to be found a choice collection of prize cabbages, etc., from cottage gardens.
She had been inquiring for these, knowing well that at her next visits to certain of her village friends, she would be catechized by them as to the said cabbages, and expected to speak critically as to their merits. Her bright face was beaming with enjoyment, and Mr. Mitchelson was listening with evident amusement, when Elsie, lifting her eyes, saw before her Douglass Gilmour.
What a pity it was that the eyes were so quickly dropped! If she had only met those which were seeking hers, and read in them the gladness which their owner felt at this speedy realization of his hopes, surely doubts must have been scattered to the winds, Mrs. Manning's little talk would have gone after them, as if it had never taken place, and Elsie's own heart searchings would have awakened only a smile at the mistake she had made in ever cherishing a doubt.
But she did not see the look which no true heart could have mistaken, and so, when Douglass, brimming over with pleasure, took her hand, Elsie's manner was shy and constrained, and the poor little commonplaces she uttered were so unlike the old manner that Douglass shrank within himself and became constrained in turn. He did not join her and her companion, though invited to do so by Mr. Mitchelson, for there was no seconding glance from Elsie, no lifting of the fringed eyelids, or a look from under them which said, "Come, and I, too, shall be glad."
So he seated himself by Uncle Edward, saying that he was rather tired with his journey, but would visit the tents by degrees, and talk over the respective merits of the exhibits with his old Rathbury friends a little later on.
Then the rector appeared on the scene, and after cordial greetings to his young lieutenant, he took off Uncle Edward; and then the malignant Fates approached Mr. Gilmour, represented by Miss Chatterton.
"So you are back again," she said, "and before the appointed time. What little bird of the air carried a message over the seas which hastened your coming?"
"Are you sorry to see me, Miss Chatterton? If so, I shall feel bound to go away again; I am sadly disappointed, for I quite expected a welcome and a little pat for having come back to my work somewhat earlier than was needful."
"Confess, now, it was the little bird's message which brought you!" said Miss Chatterton, wagging a warning finger, and trying to look jocose.
"The message was to my fellow-traveller, and was not of a cheery character, I regret to say; it came by the usual prosaic medium of the post. I did not care to linger behind and return alone, so here I am, quite ready for work again."
Miss Chatterton gave a little shake of the head, thus politely intimating that she should believe as much as she chose, then said—
"We have got our great man back again, you see; he is burning with zeal and brimming over with good intentions towards Rathbury, and, I suppose, means to cram three years' good doing into one, in order to make amends for neglect and absence."
"I believe Mr. Mitchelson has never neglected to furnish the means for helping his poor neighbours, though Mr. Harvey has been the channel for conveying it to them."
"Ah, yes. It is so easy merely to give money when we have more than we know what to do with. But personal effort, the kind word and look which sweeten even the smallest gift, are often more valued than coin or domestic comforts. No one knows that better than you do, Mr. Gilmour. Well! We must not look back, but be thankful for present favours; we have Mr. Mitchelson amongst us, and, if I am not mistaken, he has found something sufficiently attractive to keep him here."
Miss Chatterton's second shaft was more skilfully aimed than her first. It went straight home, and so, after a very short interval, did Mr. Gilmour.
He gave a hurried glance through the tents, then pleading the weariness consequent on a long journey, he hastened to his rooms, feeling as if the sunshine were gone out of his life, and regretting that his engagement with Mr. Harvey would bind him to Rathbury for the greater part of a year to come.
Weeks passed on and shaped themselves into months. Everybody saw that Mr. Gilmour was an altered man in many ways; more than ever devoted to his work, he was more solitary in it. The little wall of separation of which Miss Chatterton had so successfully laid the foundation on the day of the Flower Show, had been growing in solidity. It might be an invisible one to outer eyes, but it was an equally real thing to Elsie and himself.
She, poor child! Helped the structure by laying thereon the materials for its increase. First doubt of Gilmour's real sentiments, then self-reproach for having too easily yielded her young heart to his keeping; then the mistake about Katie; then the sense of sisterly love and self-devotion, to which she looked as her one consolation amidst the wreck of her happiness.
And Douglass Gilmour also helped to raise the barrier higher and higher, for when Elsie and he met from time to time, he was just the courteous Christian gentleman to her as to all the rest, and no more.
Yes, the barrier grew. There was no more a bending of the tall head beside the slight girlish figure sauntering down the path in the summer sunlight; no little lingerings by the gate to say "Good-bye," and making these two little monosyllables last a long time in the saying. Indeed, the sunlight itself was rarer now, for summer and autumn were gone, and the keen wind was whisking the last sere leaves from the boughs and sending them whirling along the walks, as if to banish even the memory of what had been the golden glories of the earlier year.
Winter in two faithful hearts, and Miss Chatterton rejoicing—rejoicing that the girl whom she disliked was, in the words of the old proverb, "coming to the ground between two stools;" for Elsie to give poor Gilmour the cold shoulder and not win Mr. Mitchelson was the very fulfilment of her desires. She hated pride, and she actually persuaded herself that for Elsie's young heart to bleed would be an excellent thing for, and greatly improve, her mental and moral condition. It would do her good, and she would be humbler, and of necessity the better afterwards, though it might hurt at the time.
Gilmour counted the months and weeks which must be bridged over before he could leave Rathbury, and though he knew it was the very place in which he loved to labour, and felt that he could be useful and happy in it, he began to think he might as well leave England too. The missionary spirit had ever been strong in him, only he had thought to find enough scope for its exercise in the miserable lanes and alleys which are to be found in every manufacturing town and amid its toiling thousands.
There was just one consolation when he let his thoughts dwell upon Elsie—with every day that passed, he and the master of Rathlands had been brought nearer together. They respected each other's characters and learned to talk as friend talks to the friend whom he would have chosen for a brother, were the choice of relatives left to us. And when Mr. Mitchelson gave a little hint first, and then plainly said that he meant to try and win a wife from the Priory, the brave listener clasped his hand, stifled his own pain, and thanked God that the girl whom he had hoped to call his own would have so noble and so good a man to stand by her through life.
Aloud he said, "I wish you God-speed, Mitchelson; Elsie Manning is worth any trouble to win. If there is a man in the world good enough for her, it is yourself."
"But, my dear fellow, I never had a thought of winning Elsie. It was Katie who from the very first crept into the place which death had made void—Katie, and Katie only. Can you as heartily wish me God-speed now?"
Could he? The young man sprang to his feet with an exclamation that startled his friend not a little.
"I have been the blindest of idiots!" he said, "I thought it was Elsie, and—"
"You have been weaving a web of doubt and misery for yourself, and I have been little better, for I fancied that Katie—I see daylight now, for you as well as myself. My dear Gilmour," he added, "did Miss Chatterton ever give you any hints or advice matrimonial?"
Mr. Gilmour answered the query by a hearty laugh. He could laugh now, and from that moment the two men understood each other better even than they had done before. More than this, they seemed to realize, as by a momentary inspiration, how much mischief might result from Miss Chatterton's mode of showing her interest in young people.
If that lady could but have known it, she had lost her offensive amour. Henceforth she might let fly her arrows, but they were pointless and powerless to wound any of the characters who make up our little love story. A few honest words have robbed them of their venom; two outstretched hands, clasping in friendship and with a mutual understanding, have swept away at once and for ever the wall of separation built up by a mother's anxiety, a maiden's misgivings, and a couple of miserable half-truths.
Having made up his mind, Mr. Mitchelson was not slow to act, and Mrs. Manning had the happiness of knowing, before twenty-four hours were over, that Katie at least was likely to give her a son-in-law who possessed every qualification she could desire in person, position, character, and means.
It was Katie herself who, hiding her sunny face on Elsie's shoulder, told her sister how she had been wooed and won.
"I am the happiest girl in the world," she said; "not because Beckett Mitchelson is rich, but because he is the only one I have ever cared for or could love. But mother is so delighted, and Uncle Edward too. I just want Elsie's congratulations to make my gladness complete."
The embrace of the two young arms was close enough. Elsie clung to Katie and kissed her tenderly, but not a word could she utter. In place of words came tears. The revulsion of feeling was too great, and, as the scales fell from her eyes, she could only weep—half in sorrow, for the needless pain she had endured; half in joy, that she might once more open the darkened windows and let in the sunlight of re-awakened hopes, and faith, and love.
The tears startled Katie. Holding Elsie from her, she looked at the drooping tear-stained face, and, dismayed at the sight, exclaimed—
"Elsie, Elsie! Surely you are not sorry at my news? I thought you would be the first to rejoice with me."
image006
ELSIE CLUNG TO KATIE.
"And I do, with all my heart. Sorry! I wish I could tell you how glad I am. How I wished I had talked to you, instead of keeping silent through these four miserable months! We never had any secrets between us before, only I could not speak about this one thing. Mamma gave me a little lecture about—But I cannot tell you, even now! Only, Katie, it made me think it was not Mr. Mitchelson—indeed, he was not at Rathlands then—but somebody else, that—So I was cold and distant, and everything has gone wrong."
The bits of broken sentences were not calculated to convey a very clear impression to Katie's mind, but happy love is a wonderful enlightener, and the elder sister took in the situation instantly.
"Poor Elsie! And poor Gilmour! It will come right; it is sure to come right. He will not run away from Rathbury now; or, at any rate, he will not go by himself. And you, darling, have been bearing all this weight by yourself!"
"Not by myself, dear," said Elsie; and Katie knew that the wounded heart had gone for healing and asked for strength to endure in silence, rather than a feather-weight of the burden should fall on her sister's shoulders.
A little rap at the door at this critical moment, and a maid appeared, saying that Mr. Gilmour was in the drawing-room; Mrs. Manning was engaged, and would one of the young ladies please to see him?
Elsie shrank away like a frightened fawn, and insisted that her sister should see the visitor.
"I could not go like this, Katie. Look at my eyes!" And Elsie convinced herself by a glance at the mirror that she really was not presentable.
It must be owned that no sooner was Katie out of the room than she did her utmost to make herself so, but she received no summons, and when her sister returned, it was only to say that Mr. Gilmour had really seen Mrs. Manning and offered his congratulations, and that the rest of his business referred simply to the Christmas decorations, which were to be commenced at 7 p.m.
"I have promised we will both be punctual."
"I did not mean to go, Katie."
"But you will, dear?"
And Elsie did go.
I think it must have been on the walk home that the very last vestige of the barrier between Gilmour and Elsie vanished, never to be rebuilt. But before that, Miss Chatterton's sharp eyes had observed a change in both these young people. She took an interest in the decorations, and had brought her niece to help.
All in vain. The young clergyman held his head erect when he returned the questioning look which came from behind the new eye-glasses, and he did not mind a bit for their effect in sharpening the wearer's vision.
"You may have done mischief once," said Gilmour's eyes, in return, "but we have seen through it, and you can never do it again."
And he assumed a pretty, protecting air towards Elsie, as if claiming a double share of privileges, to make up for all he had lost during that sad season of doubts and blunders.
Miss Chatterton could not understand it, for Mrs. Manning was radiant, Uncle Edward beaming in his fatherly way on his young favourites, and Mr. Mitchelson prepared all the twigs for Katie's deft fingers to twine and shape into letters and wreaths. On Elsie's cheek was the old bright colour, though they had been growing paler and paler for months past.
There was a mystery somewhere, and twenty pairs of eye-glasses would not have helped Miss Chatterton to unravel it.
Douglass Gilmour did not wait for leave from Elsie, but quite unceremoniously drew her hand through his arm, and, so to speak, walked off with her. And I think it was near the gate where the lingering "Good-bye" had been said four months before, that these thoughtless young people forgot all about north wind and threatening snow.
Forgot that the table was spread invitingly within, and that the fire blazed cheerily behind the closed shutters and velvet curtains. Forgot all, but that each loved the other with a pure, true, whole-hearted affection, and looked forward to spending their lives together.
And Douglass Gilmour reverently lifted his head towards heaven, and thanked God for having, after a season of probation, given him the desire of his heart.
Katie's marriage was not to be long delayed, and Douglass pleaded that the two weddings might take place together.
"We are not like Katie and Mr. Mitchelson," said Elsie. "He is rich, and you and I—"
"If not rich, are not poor enough to need to wait. I have enough to supply all our real wants, and to render our marriage sufficiently prudent to satisfy Mrs. Manning."
Probably this fact had its influence with the mother; but, to do her justice, she had guessed more than any one else of what had been passing through her child's heart, and would not now have hindered her marriage by throwing needless obstacles in the way.
And Miss Chatterton, when she knew the state of affairs, took some credit to herself, and when she called at the Priory, reminded Mrs. Manning that she had predicted—almost—what had come to pass.
"I always said that one of these dear girls would be the wife for Mr. Mitchelson, and just the person to make him happy. And you are going to have, the handsome curate for your other son-in-law. Not the same in point of wealth, but a worthy young man; and looks go a great way with some girls when they are not tempted by worldly advantages. No doubt Mr. Mitchelson will be able to help his brother-in-law to something."
Mrs. Manning replied, rather coldly, that Mr. Gilmour would require no help from Mr. Mitchelson; and the odious woman actually replied, with a knowing look, "That accounts for everything," and went off before Mrs. Manning had time to express her feelings in a fitting manner. Miss Chatterton got the last word, and all these foolish people who have played their parts in this little love story were too happy to be angry. They actually forgave Miss Chatterton, feeling that the mischief-maker is more to be pitied than those who suffer at her hands. It is always the injured who are readiest to pardon.
Hush! The keen wind is carrying the sound of Christmas bells from the church tower to the Priory hearth, where the yule log already blazes. They are only harbingers of wedding bells to follow before the new year becomes old.
I said my story ended at Christmas. Not so; I was mistaken. The best love story only begins when true hearts have been laid open, hands and lives united, and the two, as man and wife, commence yet more solemn duties; no longer twain but one, in the sight of Him who made them to be helpmeets for each other.
A CUCKOO IN THE NEST.
ON each page of a life's history there is sure to be a "but," clearly printed. Yet very often heedless readers pass by the little word of three letters without noting all its import. It looks so small and insignificant amongst its many-syllabled neighbours; yet it generally means so much to the hero of the story. Indeed, it often spoils or contradicts all the rest of it.
The most indifferent of travellers passing through the village of Newthorpe could not fail to stay his steps in order to notice at least the outside of Monks Lea, the stately picturesque mansion which overlooked the place, and was the glory of its inhabitants. Whoever had an eye for beauty must observe how perfect was its situation, sheltered by sloping hills and noble woods, yet commanding on two sides, views that would fill an artist's soul with rapture.
Everything about the place told of abounding wealth, for only those who possessed it could maintain such a home and its wide surroundings in the state of perfection which was the every-day condition of Monks Lea.
An inquiry about house and owner would set any tongue in Newthorpe running.
"That great house, did you say, sir? It belongs to a lady. Came to her from her father, and a deal of money with it. He was a banker, and she was his only child. Married? Yes, but a widow now; her husband was Colonel Gerard Austin, a good man and a brave soldier in his day. He would have been Sir Gerard, only he died about a month before his father, so of course his widow is Mrs. Austin, and not 'Lady,' as she well deserves to be, bless her."
The speaker on this occasion was only the ostler and general factotum at the one inn which Newthorpe could boast. But rough and unkempt-looking as was Jack Sparkes, he carried a warm heart under a worn waistcoat, and did not forget the many kindnesses he had received from the gentle lady of Monks Lea and her soldier husband.
It would not have mattered much who told the story. Man or woman, young or old, in Newthorpe, would have been pretty sure to finish by invoking a blessing on the head of Mrs. Austin, and deep feeling would have rendered a pause inevitable.
"Children, did you say?" replied Jack, in answer to another inquiry. "There is no son—never has been, and out of six girls born there is just one left, a pretty creature nine years old. The last of the five that are gone was seven. Dorothy they called her, and she was buried a month ago last Wednesday. More's the pity."
"Look at that grand place, sir; wouldn't anybody say that whoever owns it must have all that heart can wish for? Yet poor Mrs. Austin's heart is bleeding, and there is not a soul who knows her but grieves for her and with her at this minute. Look at those beautiful grounds! How often have I seen her, with her arm linked in her husband's, walking on the terraces, or in the woods."
"His head has been bent towards her bright face as she smiled up in his with a world of love in it, and it seemed as if nothing could spoil their lives. There are the grand walks and woods, but she has no husband's arm to lean on now."
"The children used to gambol about them, and make the woods ring and the walls echo as they played and laughed together. But there is only the one left, as I said a minute ago, and they do say her life hangs on a thread, though nobody seems to know what ails her. Some will have it that the child is just fretting herself to death after her sister, for they were always together. It seems an awful thing to be the last child left out of a large family, and in a home like that."
Jack Sparkes pointed to Monks Lea, and the traveller assented, then asked, "Is the house open to visitors?"
"Oh yes, sir. Cert'ny, sir; fine picture gallery, no end of curious things. Mrs. Austin is not a bit selfish even in her trouble. Her grand house will not find a plaster for a sore heart, but she takes care that it gives pleasure to many eyes all the same. And if I may be so bold, when you are among the pictures, just look at one—a family group, they call it. There's the colonel and Mrs. Austin with the baby on her knee, and little Miss Margery that is now, and the last of the lot, leaning against her. And all the others are there, looking so bright as if they were alive. If I'm not mistaken, sir, you'll say that though there's plenty of 'Old Masters' that people rave about, our last master, the colonel, is worth the whole lot put together for looks. You will not know the man he was, but I do. However, you will see the picture."
Jack Sparkes sighed at the thought, then smiled and touched his old cap as he pocketed a coin bestowed by the traveller in return for his attentions and information. Then the latter took advantage of the permission and wandered at will through the noble hall, up the wide staircase, and from one great room and gallery to another, moralizing as he went.
There were evidences of wealth and taste everywhere, but in fancy, he saw the sorrowful lady and the silent child, left alone to tread the grand apartments day by day. If he had felt inclined to be envious, the knowledge that in his own comparatively small home, there awaited him his fair young wife and four healthy little ones, would have made him drive such a thought from his mind. He would have said, "I am the truly rich parent. The poor lady who owns this stately home is wealthy in the world's eyes, but she is ever dwelling amongst shadows—memories of the dead and of happiness gone never to return. Poor widowed wife, poor bereaved mother! So rich, but so poor."
The traveller thought this as he stood before the picture specially named by Jack Sparkes, and then, having duly feasted his eyes on the other beauties of Monks Lea, he went on his way, returned to his work in the world, and in due time, forgot the story of its occupants.
It is doubtful if he would recollect it now, for twenty years have passed since he heard it, and the thread of the tale must be taken up where the teller let it drop.
The mistress of Monks Lea had enough of sorrowful memories, but she was not one who desired to fix her mind on these alone. Apart from the loss of husband and children, the past held glorious memories of her own early days, made as bright as love and care could render them; of a happy wooing, ending in a blessed union with the man of her choice, her only love; of a married life, too short, indeed, but still as near perfection as is consistent with humanity.
Mrs. Austin was just the woman to have chosen the bright side to dwell upon, had she not been carrying about with her a foreboding dread of which she could not rid herself. She had been called upon to give up five of her children. Would her last, her one ewe lamb, be spared to her? Or would her little Margery follow her sisters into the "silent land?"
The answer to this seemed worse than doubtful. The child was growing paler, thinner, more listless every day. Toys were put away. Nothing attracted her, she asked for nothing, had no wants.
It was in vain that the doctors said the child had no disease. Their words gave Mrs. Austin no comfort, for she was almost heart-broken.
"Can you not see that Margery is fading before our eyes? Is there no remedy? Can all your skill do nothing to save this one little child?" she asked.
Then clasping Margery to her breast, as though her motherly love would shield the little one from the advancing foe, she looked with beseeching eyes in the faces of the pitying doctors, who knew not how to answer her appeal.
It was not, however, from these that Mrs. Austin gained a gleam of hope, but from a poor mother in a cottage home, indeed, yet one whose heart was as rich in maternal love as her own.
"My little Effie was just the same as Miss Margery, after her sister died, for there were only the big rough lads left, and they were no mates for her. She just wailed for Nelly, and I thought she was going to follow her, when we got a new neighbour, who had a bright little lass, the age of her that was gone. She, too, had left her mates behind her, and was sorrowing for them, but when she saw my Effie, she just flew to her and got her arms round her neck, fair crying for joy. The bairns comforted one another in a way that we older folk, with all our care and thought, cannot manage or understand. Mine was saved by a playmate, when the doctor could only look on, say kind words, and do nothing. Now, dear lady, surely it is worth while to try the same thing for Miss Margery. It can do her no harm to give her a playmate. It may save her, as it did my Effie."
"Do you know of a nice little girl, whose parents would let her come and stay at Monks Lea?" asked Mrs. Austin, eagerly.
Jane Gresham shook her head.
"There are plenty of people, no doubt, that would be only too glad to send a child to bear Miss Margery company, but it is not any sort that will do. A little village lass would not fill the place of Miss Dorothy to her sister, or be fit to stand in her shoes. Whoever you take must be something like the one that is gone."
Here lay the difficulty. While Mrs. Austin thanked Jane Gresham for her advice, and eagerly grasped at the hope held out by it, she asked herself, "Where shall I find the child who will be alike a suitable playfellow for Margery and a fitting successor to my lost darling?"
The poorest mothers are not often willing to part with a child; they may moan over days of toil and nights of unrest; they may talk of being borne down by family cares and anxieties; they may sorrowfully count the many mouths that are to be fed, and note the disparity between these and the food that is theirs to divide; but should Death snatch away a member of the noisy flock, he always takes the wrong one. If there is an offer from friend or kinsman to provide for a child, the mother sees nothing but merits in her darlings, and knows not which to yield, even though convinced that the change would be all gain to her little one.
What Mrs. Austin wanted was not a mere baby from a poor, overcrowded home, but some child of gentle birth and nurture, who would be given up to her keeping, and be Margery's sister in all but actual kindred. She returned to Monks Lea, wondering what must be done, and rendered more than ever, eager to carry out her plan by the sight of Margery's pale face and languid step, as she met her in the hall.
"If I do anything it must be at once," she thought, "or the remedy will come too late; but I will have a talk with Barbara before I take any steps in the matter."
And Mrs. Austin went to the nursery, where she felt sure of finding her faithful servant and humble friend, Barbara Molesworth.
THE nurse rose from her seat as her mistress entered and at once laid down the needlework with which she was busied. Then she drew Mrs. Austin's favourite chair towards the fireside, and standing near it, waited for what was to follow.
Barbara Molesworth was a striking-looking woman of forty, tall of stature, and with a face which invited confidence by its combined expression of truth, firmness, common sense and kindness.
It would have been impossible to look into Barbara's fine honest grey eyes and doubt her trustworthiness. At that moment they were turned upon her mistress with a tender anxiety that was most touching to behold.
Mistress and maid were nearly of an age, and had known each other all their lives. When Miss Carrington, the banker's daughter, became the wife of Captain, afterwards Colonel Austin, she would have no personal attendant but the village girl she knew and could trust.
Barbara proudly left her home to be Mrs. Austin's maid, but she only filled that post until the first child was born, and then her mistress said, "Nobody will love and care for my baby like you." So the maid became the nurse, and through all the years that followed, with their joys and sorrows, she remained faithful to the trust reposed in her, and gave the children a love second only to that she lavished on her mistress.
Considered of the first importance in the household, Barbara had no enemies amongst the servants, for she bore herself wisely, giving offence to none in word or deed, but by her example shaming wrong-doers and encouraging the weak who wished to do right. Treated with friendship and confidence by her mistress, she never presumed on these or forgot the social difference between them.
But Mrs. Austin knew that in Barbara she had such a friend, and from her such devotion to herself and her children as no wealth alone could buy; and she valued these things accordingly, and gave back love for love.
"Sit down, Barbara," she said. "I want a quiet talk with you about Margery. Do not take your work, I want every bit of help and sympathy you can give me in a difficult matter. Nay, come closer, and let me hold your hand, Barbara; it makes me feel stronger. May God help me! I am so lonely and so perplexed!"
The nurse drew a lower seat close by that of her mistress, and taking Mrs. Austin's delicate white hand in hers, she kissed it again and again, then holding it in both her own, she said, "Surely, dear mistress, there is no fresh trouble! Tell me what is on your mind. If my life would buy you happiness, or make my darling Miss Margery's face glow with health again, you know I would give it."
"I do know, Barbara; and that expressions which from most lips would mean nothing, mean all that is said when they come from yours. Now listen: Jane Gresham has put an idea into my mind which may prove a seed for blessing to spring from. You must say what you think of it."
Then Mrs. Austin told the nurse all that had passed between her and Jane.
Barbara listened attentively, but did not at once answer, when asked by her mistress, "What had best be done?"
"It is hard to say," she replied, after an interval of silence. "There are sense and reason in Jane Gresham's advice, but it is an awful risk to run. You may get a pretty and healthy child, so far as the body is concerned, but one that has been trained by a good and loving mother, a lady like yourself, would not be easy to find. Such mothers do not give away their treasures."
"I must not expect perfection, Barbara, but a child of seven years, even if not brought up with all the care my children have had, would be easy to lead, and could be moulded at will."
"Not so, dear mistress. The babe drinks in good or evil with its first food. Evil is an almost certain heritage, and passes from generation to generation, despite of pains and care. I would have you be even more particular as to what the parents have been than what the child is now, if you think of taking one."
"But dear, dear! It will be like the rearing of a cuckoo in a hedge-sparrow's nest. I cannot make up my mind to it, though I dare not advise you against trying, for Miss Margery's sake. You know the old rhyme—"
"The bird can have no peace or restThat rears a cuckoo in his nest;The cuckoo lodger makes a rout,And flings the sparrow's fledglings out.The cuckoo thrives and soon can fly,The sparrow's younglings fall and die."
Mrs. Austin could hardly refrain from smiling as Barbara quoted the village rhyme that had been familiar to them both as children, and which was equally so to Newthorpe youngsters still.
"I have not found my young cuckoo yet, Barbara," she said. "If I do succeed, you will be good to the child, for Margery's sake and mine."
"I will do my best for any child, mistress dear, and in any place. First of all, because, be it gentle or simple, the same great Creator breathed into it the breath of life, that gave me 'life and breath and all things.' An immortal soul is God's trust to those who have to train it, or help in nursing it for Him. Next, a child's helplessness, its pretty ways, even if they be contradictious and wayward at times, speak to me with such a strong pleading voice that I can never close my ears against it. So here are two reasons for promising. Beside, if I had only my darling Miss Margery and you, dear mistress, to think about, should I not do my best for the child who was to be as my nursling's sister and friend? My earnest prayer is that God will guide your choice."
"Amen!" responded Mrs. Austin. "As yet, I know not where to look, or whom to ask."
She stayed a little longer, talking with Barbara about other matters, and then left the nursery.
On the following morning a great surprise awaited her, which seemed, indeed, little short of a miracle.
The letters reached Monks Lea early, and were always carried to Mrs. Austin's room by Barbara, as the lady herself did not often rise until after breakfast. She could not have told why she selected one letter in an unfamiliar hand to be read first of all, unless it was, that judging it to be like some others of a business character, she chose to glance over them and then linger over those from friends and kinsfolk.
The selected letter was long, and there was an enclosure folded in tissue paper that might be a photograph.
Barbara, standing by the bed, noted that her mistress's pale cheek became flushed as she read on, and her eager looks showed that the contents of the letter stirred her deeply. When she had finished, she unfolded the paper and gazed with delighted admiration on the photograph. Then turning with a look of positive awe to the nurse, she said, "Barbara, something like a miracle has happened; this letter contains the offer of a child. She is a girl, seven and a half years old, and with the face of an angel. Look at it."
So saying, Mrs. Austin placed the photograph in Barbara's hand, and remained in dreamy absorbed silence, as if lost in wonder at what had come to pass.
"If this likeness tells truth, she is a beauty to look at; and, oh! If she is only as good as she is pretty, there will be nothing to desire!" exclaimed the nurse, in honest admiration of the lovely child face it portrayed. "Surely this is a true Godsend to you in your difficulty, dear mistress."
"I believe it, Barbara; and now I must tell you whose child this is: you remember Edward Austin, who caused my husband a great deal of trouble soon after we were married."
"I may well remember him,"' said the nurse, and drew herself up, as that name was mentioned, with a look of righteous indignation on her face; for the man, a wild, unprincipled spendthrift, had persecuted Barbara Molesworth, then a handsome girl of twenty-one, with unwelcome attentions, which had only been stopped by her master's interference.
"He is dead, Barbara," said Mrs. Austin, gently.
The indignant look gave way to one of pity as she heard the news, and Barbara replied, "I hope he had become a changed man before the last call came."
"I am afraid not, Barbara. From time to time I have helped him, not because there was any claim of kindred, for though he bore my husband's name, the cousinship was so distant as to be hardly traceable. His wife died two years ago, leaving a child; and the only bright spot in Edward Austin's character was love for his little daughter, and concern for her future. She has been cared for by a friend of her mother's until now, the child having been left penniless. The good woman has other and nearer claims, and having been informed that Edward Austin was a relative of my husband's, she has written to ask if I will do something for the orphan. I could not refuse in any case, but, situated as I am, this letter seems the most wonderful answer to my yearning prayers."
Mrs. Austin's face, lighted with hope and thankfulness, was beautiful to see, but there was no reflection of those feelings in the countenance of Barbara Molesworth.
"If it were the child of any other father I could rejoice too. But, oh! my dear, dear mistress, I could go on my knees to beg that you would not bring Edward Austin's daughter to Monks Lea. I can see nothing but sorrow to follow. Like father, like child. He was a bad man; fair of face, false of tongue; an undutiful son, a faithless husband; a man who would use a friend for his own purposes, rob him, and then laugh at him for his credulity, whilst he pocketed the money out of which he had cajoled him. The poison of adders was under his lips, and he stung the hand that ministered to his needs!"
Barbara spoke with such rapidity and earnestness that Mrs. Austin was quite distressed, and the look of hope faded from her face.
"You frighten me, Barbara," she said; "and you grieve me, for how can this innocent and lovely child be to blame for her father's misdoings?"
"Forgive me, dear mistress, if I have said too much, and spoken hard things. You never knew all the wickedness of Edward Austin. The colonel did, and I feel sure, if he were living to-day, he would shrink from the very thought of bringing a child of his to be a sister to Miss Margery. You ask me, how can the child be to blame for her father's doings? Poor thing! If she had to carry the burden of his faults, she would indeed be heavily weighted! But I did not mean that; I only meant to say that you cannot expect good fruit from a corrupt tree. There's Scripture for that,—'Do men gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles?' This child is a shoot from a corrupt tree, and she will bring no blessing with her. Do not take her, mistress dear! If you do, she will be as the cuckoo in the nest, and injure your own darling."
"But, Barbara, I do not think you understand, or that those Scripture words have the meaning you put upon them. Surely they refer to the doings of the wicked, not to their children. 'Ye shall know them by their fruits,' refers to their actions, not to their offspring," replied Mrs. Austin.
"I may be wrong in this matter, but I am not mistaken about the character of this child's father. As a young man, he had such a face that a painter might have chosen it as a model for an angel's. I would rather have seen the child's resemble her mother's, for she was a good, true woman by all accounts, though her looks were nothing to boast of," replied Barbara, still unconvinced.
"Then why not take the charitable side, and believe that while the father's beauty has descended to the little one, the mother's goodness and truth have been her heritage also?"
By this question Mrs. Austin turned Barbara's arguments against herself, and the nurse was unable to answer them. For a few moments she stood in silence, then replied—
"You are wiser and cleverer than I am, dear mistress, and far better, too, for you are of those who 'think no evil,' and strive to find and cherish good in all things. I cannot prove that you are mistaken in this case. Indeed, it is just of your goodness and patience, that you allow me, your humble servant, to speak with such plainness and freedom. But you know how I love you and yours, and you bear with me for the sake of all that has come and gone during the lives we have mostly spent together. And now it is not for me to battle with your wishes, or trouble you with my impetuous tongue, especially when I have no sounder argument to offer than I have urged already. Yet sometimes the instinct born of love is worth more than learning, and there is that in me which says, as plainly as ever voice uttered words, 'It will be for evil to you and Miss Margery, and not for good, if you bring the child of Edward Austin under this roof.'"
Mrs. Austin could not help being deeply impressed by Barbara's words, and touched by her faith in these inward impressions; but she was too anxious to try the effect of a child's companionship on her own daughter to be turned from her purpose by them.
"You have not heard the contents of this letter yet," she said; "listen, and I will read what is written—
"Dear Madam,""You will remember that two years ago I wrote to inform you of Mrs. Edward Austin's death, during the absence of her husband on the Continent, and of the sad circumstances which attended it. But for the kindness of friends she and her child would have been destitute of common necessaries; but for your goodness she would have been buried at the cost of the parish, for no one knew where her husband was to be found at the time. He returned, as you also know, and was greatly distressed by the loss of his excellent wife and the position of his child, who was left by her mother in my care.""Again by your bounty, Mr. Austin was enabled to prepare a home to shelter the innocent little one, to whom, in spite of his many faults, he was devotedly attached. Only a week ago the father and child were living together, a respectable middle-aged housekeeper having charge of the cottage which sheltered them, and I believe he was both a better and happier man than he had been for years. The innocent companionship of his little Clare was a wonderful help and safeguard, and showed what strength there may be even in a child's loving hand, and what good may spring from a pure affection for 'one of these little ones.'""I have again to communicate sorrowful news. Mr. Austin was taken ill and died in a few hours. He had only strength to ask me to write and tell you that he was sensible of your own and Colonel Austin's past goodness to him, and to implore you, in the event of his death, to save his darling from the workhouse—the only shelter open to her, unless you would be her friend. I promised to care for her until your answer should arrive. I only wish I could keep her altogether, for she is one of the loveliest and sweetest little creatures I ever saw, though now fretting incessantly after her father, who was buried yesterday.""You will, however, be better able to judge from her photograph than from any description of mine.""As to Mr. Edward Austin's affairs, it appears that there were some trifling debts; but these and the funeral expenses will be covered by the sale of his furniture and some articles of jewellery, etc. Fortunately, he left a written document empowering a gentleman to dispose of all these things; so that I have nothing to do with any business matters. My promise will have been fulfilled when I have given the child into your care, if you will consent to receive her.""Regretting that I am a second time the bearer of sorrowful tidings—I am, dear madam,""Yours very faithfully,""LAURA ALLINGTON."
Mrs. Austin refolded the letter, and again took up the photograph, at which she gazed with increasing admiration.
"Your mind is made up, dear mistress. I can see it in your face. All I have to do is to obey your will, and make the best of it," said Barbara.
"I do not see how I can send any answer, except that I am willing to take charge of the child; and, in spite of your croaking, dear nurse, I shall look upon her as a true Godsend."
"I pray that she may prove so," said Barbara; and, lifting her mistress's hand to her lips, she kissed it tenderly.
"Nay, kiss me, Barbara—good, true, life-long friend!" said Mrs. Austin; and drawing the nurse's head towards her, she embraced her affectionately.
"You forgive my croaking, then. It all came of my anxiety that no harm should happen you or yours through your very good doing," she replied. Then, as if a new thought suggested suspicion, Barbara asked—
"Have you the letters Mrs. Allington wrote two years ago? This hand is a strange one to me. I do not think I ever saw it before, and yet I brought all that lady's letters to you at the time. I seldom forget writing."
"I destroyed all the old letters; but I believe this is in the same hand, only the former were written with a very fine pen, and this with a broad-pointed one. I could at any time make as great a difference in my own writing by a change of pens."
Barbara made no further remark; and by return of post a letter went to Mrs. Allington, with a promise to receive the child at Monks Lea.
IT wanted only four days of Christmas when Mrs. Austin answered Mrs. Allington's letter, and in order to carry out a plan that she had formed, she was anxious that the orphan child should arrive at Newthorpe on the twenty-third of December. In her reply she offered to send a trusty messenger for little Clare, or, if Mrs. Allington would herself bring the child, she would bear all the costs of the journey and arrange for the lady herself to remain a night at Newthorpe with her charge. She explained her reasons for not immediately receiving Clare at Monks Lea.
Mrs. Austin had been trying to interest Margery in various Christmas preparations, for though there would be none of the usual festivities at Monks Lea, its mistress was no less thoughtful for the happiness of others.
The little scholars were to have their treats, the poor ample provisions for their Christmas dinner, and though her own heart might be aching for her loved and lost, and anxious about Margery, other hearths must not be cold or hearts heavy through lack of kindly consideration on Mrs. Austin's part.
Margery was glad that other children should rejoice and have Christmas gifts and feasts, but she wanted nothing, only shook her head when asked, and gave her mother a mute embrace.
Christmas-trees and gifts that Dorothy could not see or share had no charm for the loving, lonely heart.
Still the child noted one gleam of gladness. "Mother" had some secret, and it made her look as she had never done before, since the angels came and carried away Dorothy. She would wait, and "mother" would tell her in time, if it were good for her to know.
"Mother" had a surprise which almost startled her on the very day after her letter went to Mrs. Allington. It came in the shape of a telegram, and in it she was requested to meet Clare Austin at Newthorpe Station at 5.30 p.m. "Letter to follow."
This message rendered Mrs. Austin extremely uncomfortable. What could be the meaning of this haste? It roused her suspicions, and she began to ask herself; "Am I the victim of some trick? Is my faithful Barbara right in her forebodings? There could surely be no reason for sending off the child, and alone, directly after receiving my letter."
Of necessity, Mrs. Austin took Barbara into her confidence. She showed her the telegram, but without manifesting any displeasure at the course taken by Mrs. Allington, only remarking—
"She might be afraid that I should change my mind about receiving the child. What shall we do with her until to-morrow?"
"Could you not tell Mrs. Paterson, and ask her to take the little one in at the rectory?" said Barbara.
"The very thing. I will go there first, and take the rector and his wife into confidence. I am sure they will help me, and as Miss Paterson's Christmas holidays have begun to-day, she will look after little Clare for me."
Miss Paterson, the rector's daughter, was Margery's governess, but being the only girl in a large family, her time was divided between her home duties and her daily teaching. She was a fine, intelligent girl, well-educated, of a bright temperament, and with a disposition essentially tender and sympathetic, and yet by no means wanting in decision.
At Monks Lea she was not only Margery's governess, but the valued friend and frequent companion of Mrs. Austin, who had found the girl's bright presence a great comfort.
Of late her duties as teacher had been almost suspended, her one pupil's delicate state having rendered regular lessons unadvisable. But Mrs. Austin gratefully acknowledged her still more important services in cheering the child and trying to turn her thoughts from Dorothy. From her Mrs. Austin was certain of sympathy and help in her difficulty.
Leaving Barbara with her little daughter, she drove straight to the rectory, and told her story.
The faces of Mrs. Austin's hearers brightened as they listened, and Mr. Paterson and his wife cordially entered into the plan.
"I believe," said the rector, "you have hit upon the best remedy for your dear child's ailment, and that you are going to administer it in the best manner also. Ellen shall meet the stranger little one at the station, and bring her here. Village people gossip so, that if you received her there the news that there was a little girl guest coming to Monks Lea would reach your nursery before you arrived at home, and spoil everything. As our visitor, she will excite no notice, for the small fry belonging to the various branches of our family are constantly coming and going."
"There is not much time. Let Ellen take the carriage to the station, and I will await her return with the child. So many thanks for your kind help," said Mrs. Austin.
Trains do not stay long at village stations, and Ellen Paterson was only just aware that a little girl in mourning garments was tenderly lifted from a first-class carriage by the guard, and with her belongings deposited on the platform, the station-master's attention having been called to her and a paper thrust into his hand. The carriage lights and those outside showed the faces of two lady passengers who were looking wistfully after their late companion, and then the train moved off, and was lost to sight.
Ellen advanced, and, addressing the station-master, said—
"I have come to meet a little friend. The Monks Lea carriage is waiting. Mrs. Austin was calling upon my mother, and kindly lent it for me to take our visitor back in."
"Here's the little party, no doubt, Miss Ellen. Funny way of sending a child, but all right if she were coming into your hands. Here's her label."
He showed the paper received from the guard, and Ellen read—
"Miss Clare. Newthorpe Station. To be called for."
"This is my little girl," she replied; and, turning to the child, she took her by the hand, kissed her lovingly, and led her to the carriage. Only when she was seated in it did the little one speak.
"I am going to have a sister," she said. "I have no papa now; but Mrs. Allington says I shall have a new mamma, who will be good to me, and give me pretty things. Are you my new mamma?"
There was something so strangely self-contained about this child, her little lesson had evidently been so thoroughly impressed upon her, that Miss Paterson was astonished. There was no sign of fear or doubt in the face confidingly uplifted as she asked the question—no trace of tears or regrets for those she had left behind.
"No, darling," replied Ellen; "I am not going to be your mamma, but you will have one—such a dear, kind lady, and you will see her directly."
Quite contentedly the child nestled within her companion's encircling arm, and said no more until Ellen led her into the rectory drawing-room and removed the hat which shaded her face.
What a lovely face it was! Exquisitely fair, with perfect features, violet blue eyes, and hair that rippled like a sunshiny cloud over her shoulders. Little stray rings of it fringed her white brow, and yet there was a delicate rose glow on the cheeks, suggestive of health as well as beauty.
Astonishment held the tongues of all present, and before Mrs. Austin could speak the child went daintily towards her with outstretched arms.
"It is you who are to be my mamma, for Mrs. Allington said you would have black things on, like mine. But I do not like black frocks. They are ugly and worse for little girls than for big people. Please let me wear white ones again when I am your little girl." And the strange child looked coaxingly in Mrs. Austin's face, as she lifted her own to be kissed.
The little creature's ways were so natural and yet so fascinating that Mrs. Austin was charmed at once.
She kissed the child affectionately, feeling that all the difficulties in the way of introducing her to Margery would be smoothed by Clare's docility and ready apprehension.
Mrs. Allington had evidently taken pains to prepare her for what she had to expect in the new home, and everything was to be hoped for from her coming.
Clare was to remain under Miss Paterson's charge until the following evening. Then Ellen would bring her to Monks Lea after Margery was in bed, and remain the night with her. On Christmas morning, the children would meet for the first time, and Clare was told that she would then have her promised sister.
The little one was too much excited by her new surroundings to sleep late. Before it was light she was begging Miss Paterson to let her be dressed, and great was her pleasure on finding that the black frock she so much disliked was to be put aside and a white one substituted for it.
The frock chosen was of a beautiful soft material, which fell in shimmering folds, and was trimmed with dainty lace. It had been worn, but only once, by Dorothy at a children's party, and Margery's was exactly like it.
When Barbara Molesworth was told to lay out the little frock with all its accompaniments for the stranger child, she shrank from the task, and with streaming eyes appealed to Mrs. Austin against its being put to such a use.
"Mistress, dear, let this new child have clothes as grand as you like, but do not put her in Miss Dorothy's shoes. It would be just sacrilege; and that little frock, too! The best and last you bought for your darling; her 'snow frock' she called it, because the soft silk shone as the snow does on a frosty moonlight night."
"Clare must have that frock on, Barbara," replied Mrs. Austin. "You will understand afterwards my reason for insisting on this."
Barbara did understand when she saw the beautiful child on Christmas morning. She gazed with an awe-stricken face as Clare stepped towards Margery's door in the dim grey light of that December morning.
"She might be an angel," whispered the nurse.
"I believe she will prove an angel of health and new life and joy to my Margery, for you know, Barbara, angel means messenger."
On went the little one, her eyes dancing with delight, her sunny hair rippling in waves over her snowy frock, until she paused before Margery's door and knocked gently.
"Is it you, Barbara? You left me asleep. Why do you knock?" said Margery, in a weary tone; and in reply—
"I am not Barbara," returned Clare.
"Who are you, then? I do not know your voice."
"Come and see. Come, quick," was Clare's answer, followed by a ringing laugh, whilst she clapped her little hands with glee.
There was no further delay. Margery was out of bed and at the door in a moment, her little bare feet falling noiselessly on the carpet. As she opened the door the lights outside were turned full on Clare, and Margery became aware of the presence of the stranger child.
Startled at first, she shrank back, and Mrs. Austin's heart sank within her, lest the experiment had done harm instead of good, for Margery's face had become deadly pale.
"Oh dear, dear!" said Clare. "Don't you know me? I am Dorothy's Christmas gift. You will have me. You will not send me away again, but let me be your little sister, will you not?"
She stretched out her arms. Margery rushed towards her, and the children held each other in a close embrace which seemed as if it would never come to an end.
Tears of thankfulness streamed down Mrs. Austin's cheeks, and Barbara and Miss Paterson fairly sobbed with gladness as they witnessed the complete success of the mother's plan. When Margery's face was uplifted, there was a new light in her eyes, and a tinge of colour had stolen into her pale cheeks. Life would henceforth have a new interest for her also, it was plain.
"I thought you were an angel," she said to Clare. "I was rather frightened when I saw you, for I know that Dorothy is an angel now, and you are wearing her frock. Then I thought that if Dorothy had been changed into you, I ought not to be afraid, for you would love me as she did."
"I came on purpose," replied the other child, with the most winsome face imaginable, and a little musical laugh. "I have no sister or mamma, and I have lost poor papa too, though I had not seen him for ever so long when they said he was gone and would not come back any more. So I came here to be your sister and to love you."
"I see," said Margery. "Then you are not an angel, after all, and I remember that Dorothy never wore that frock when she was ill. She left it behind in the nursery wardrobe with mine when she went to heaven."
The child could not bear to speak of her sister as dead, and it was far better so. Better that the loving heart should realize the great and glorious truth that our loved ones are not lost, only gone before, to be safe in the Lord's garner, until we too are gathered into the same eternal storehouse.
"No," responded Clare, frankly; "I am just a little girl, and my real name is Clare Austin, not Dorothy. I do not want to be an angel for a long, long while—not till I am ever so old. I want to stay and play with you and be your sister. You will have me, will you not? Do not send me back."
The beautiful child face lengthened at the possibility of such a thing, and the big violet eyes began to fill with tears.
"Send you back! Oh no, no!" cried Margery.
"You are Dorothy's Christmas gift. Nobody sends Christmas presents back, and besides, I love you now, and I will never part with you—never."
Another long embrace followed this declaration on Margery's part, and Clare was content.
Through all that day the children were inseparable. Side by side at meals, then rambling through the great house hand-in-hand, Margery acting as guide and the younger child taking in everything with delighted eyes, and making such quaint old-fashioned remarks about what she saw, that once more the walls echoed the sound of merry laughter. The soft white frock had been taken off, and, dressed alike in velvet and furs, the two raced along the terraces at mid-day, when the sun shone upon the frosted plants and made them glitter as if strewn with diamonds.
Worshippers in Newthorpe Church that morning wondered at the sight of a sunny-haired child nestling beside their own "little lady," as Margery was generally called. But Mrs. Austin's face brightened as she glanced towards the pair, and in the churchyard she told Jane Gresham that she had followed her advice, and found a companion for Margery.