Chapter III

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.

"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.