Chapter I

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.