Chapter IV

IT seemed strange that no after inquiry was made about Clare. Mrs. Austin wrote to Mrs. Allington, and told her of the child's safe arrival, and of the favourable impression she had already made. She described the meeting with Margery, and the immediate good which resulted from it, and announced her intention of keeping, educating, and ultimately providing for Clare.

"She will share every advantage with my own daughter, who is delighted with her new sister. To you I cannot sufficiently express my gratitude, for every one here shares my belief that Clare's coming will save Margery's life," wrote Mrs. Austin.

This letter never reached the lady to whom it was addressed. It was returned through the Dead Letter Office, marked, "Removed; present address unknown."

This incident made Mrs. Austin uneasy and anxious. Could she be the victim of a clever trick? The Mrs. Allington who had been the friend of Clare's mother was, she knew, a most unlikely person to lend herself to any imposture. But Mrs. Austin remembered that Barbara doubted the genuineness of the handwriting, and the letter promised in the telegram had never arrived. Could it be possible that Edward Austin was still living, and had first made himself acquainted with the state of affairs at Monks Lea, then planned to get his child installed there, with a view to using her in after years as a means of money-getting?

Without even telling Barbara, Mrs. Austin instituted private inquiries, and found that rooms in the house whence Mrs. Allington's letter was addressed had been occupied, but for a very short time, by a widow lady and her brother. That a very lovely child was with them, but only for a single night before they finally left; and it was said she had neither father nor mother, but was about to be adopted by a rich relative. The child was brought from some country place to London. The lady's name was Allington, that of her brother, Henry Marsh.

It was all unsatisfactory and perplexing. After receiving the information Mrs. Austin did not for a moment believe that her correspondent was the real Mrs. Allington, for she was not a widow, but the mother of a large family. When she wrote to Mrs. Austin, two years before, she was about to remove, and having no further business with that lady, she did not send her new address, so all trace of her was lost.

Some things that Clare said served to confirm the story told to Mrs. Austin. The child talked of the cottage where she stayed with papa, and of his being ill and going away for a long, long while; also of Mary, who took care of her, till a lady and a gentleman came for her, and put on that black frock and took her away. Then they put her in the train, and sent her to be Dorothy's sister.

Clare was a little chatterbox, and had plenty to say about poor papa, and the Mary who must have cared so well for her, and little playfellows whose Christian names she mentioned. But when all was put together it seemed rather to confirm what Mrs. Austin learned from other sources, and the one unsatisfactory portion was that which related to the lady and gentleman from whose hands she had received the child.

Having done all in her power to unravel the mystery, she told the result to Barbara.

"And a good thing it will be if you never know more of those people than you do at this minute, mistress dear," said the nurse. "You have made up your mind to keep Miss Clare; and seeing the good to Miss Margery, I dare not say you are doing wrong. Let those people keep away, then you can train the child to your own mind, and none can meddle or mar."

With which sentiments Mrs. Austin cordially agreed; and the matter was not again alluded to by either mistress or maid.

Ten peaceful years followed the arrival of Dorothy's Christmas gift at Monks Lea. Mrs. Austin had the happiness of seeing Margery's health entirely restored, and gradually the dark shadow caused by so many bereavements passed from the home. She resumed her old place in society, but, though often solicited, could not be induced to marry a second time. She devoted herself to the training of the two children, assisted by Ellen Paterson and various masters, until the time came when the rector's daughter went to preside over a home of her own. But that was not until Margery was nineteen, and Clare in her eighteenth year. The girls had been associated in everything, and were devotedly attached to each other; and yet, though Margery was the elder and the real daughter of the house, it was always she who yielded to the stronger will of Clare.

Both girls had excellent abilities, but Margery's were of the more solid kind, and she worked the harder to store her mind. She was also quieter and more self-contained—not one who gave her friendship to all corners, but once given, it could be relied on through good and evil fortune.

Let Margery be the companion of some specially gifted visitor, and he was certain to speak first of her intelligent sympathy as a listener, of her thirst for information, and then to be struck with the riches of her own mental stores.

"What a well-informed girl Miss Austin is!" he would say. "I did not suspect this until we had a talk; for she does not assert herself in the least."

Someone else would speak of the girl's thoughtful consideration, her unselfishness, her quickness in finding out what would please others, and her anxiety to give pleasure, even by sacrificing her own will.

The mother would listen with a look of proud affection, and reply—

"Yes; but only I can tell what Margery is—so true, tender, reliable, faithful at all costs to herself; so clever, and yet rendering to me the simple, prompt obedience of a little child. I think no girl combines such opposite excellences as does my Margery."

Clare was essentially different. Her beauty grew with her years, and was so unique in its style that, combined with her ready wit, it attracted and fascinated young and old. From the first it was amusing to see how she got her own way—sometimes by coaxing, at others by a pretty wilfulness that was hard to withstand; or again, by tears and pleading looks, expressive of such utter misery that even Barbara could not resist them, though she often indignantly declared that her "real little lady had to play second fiddle to the other."

Clare could turn the predetermined "No" into "Yes." She would sit demurely silent for a time, and then break out like a flash of sunshine, showing herself alternately witty, wilful, and tender, but always intensely fascinating. She seemed to be able to summon people to her side by the merest glance, and to make herself a centre of attraction to all the most desirable of Mrs. Austin's guests, whilst it fell to Margery's lot to entertain the less attractive.

She had such pretty ways of bestowing unexpected caresses on children, or on the wrinkled cheek of some old lady. She whispered a few sweet words, or gave a momentary look which made the recipients who gazed in those wonderful violet eyes feel as if an angel voice and vision had passed by them.

She was nearly everybody's confidante, and always a trustworthy one; but by dint of keeping other people's secrets she managed to preserve her own.

It was the custom at Monks Lea for Mrs. Austin to allow Margery and Clare to read all letters that were of common interest. Margery's were generally handed both to her mother and Clare, but the latter rarely reciprocated this confidence.

"I will read everything that concerns myself," she would say; "but I cannot tell Dora's secrets;" or, "There is a bit of family news that Nelly wishes me to keep back for a little while. You see, mother dear, they will trust me, so what can I do?"

She would look at Mrs. Austin appealingly, who would answer—

"You are quite right, Clare; never betray a trust, however unimportant it may seem."

"I knew you would say so; but I hate to keep anything from you or Margery." And she would spring from her seat and kiss them both, as if to make amends for her involuntary reticence.

From the time the two were children, Barbara Molesworth used to say, "Miss Clare will make many a heart ache before she grows up."

Clare shook her sunny locks, and treasured the remark in her memory, with a keen appreciation of its meaning. To Margery, on the contrary, it had a terrible sound, and she said—

"Nurse, I hope I shall never make any heart ache. I want to be like my mother, and then people will be made glad instead of sorry by what I do."

"Heaven bless you, my precious!" replied Barbara. "You frame to be like your mother. You will not carry your sunshine on your head only, but in your kind heart and loving lips, and you will share it alike with rich and poor. People will run after Miss Clare for her pretty face and ways, and she will say pretty words, too; but when they want deeds as well as words, or a friend on a dark day, they will come to you."

"But I love Clare, and I never want to take anything from her," was always the answer; and Margery meant it.

She took it as the natural thing that admirers should cluster round Clare, though they might have left her to do so. She excelled her adopted sister in many accomplishments, but she kept these in the background, that Clare's might be the more conspicuous, and the latter knew how to make the most of her own.

Both were musical, and had exquisite voices; but Margery's love was so genuine, her admiration of Clare so unselfish, that she would be content to accompany her, and to play the part of listener only, while others praised the singer, without knowing that the elder girl was hiding her light, that the other's might shine more brightly.

To exalt Clare cost Margery nothing; for true love effaces self, and she was the happier for the admiration so freely showered on her sister.

Yet some were indignant as they looked on, and blamed Mrs. Austin for allowing this. They were mostly people who knew that Clare was not her daughter. Many did not know it; for no difference was made between them, and Mrs. Austin spoke of both as her daughters.

"Miss Austin effaces herself," said a French lady who came regularly to Monks Lea to converse with the girls in her own language. "It would be well if she were more often seen apart from Miss Clare, who is charming, but a little of the actress, though I doubt if she knows it. It is her second nature, born in the child, who deems it her mission to please. And so she does; she delights every one; she makes them think well of themselves and of her. They go, believing she will love them always, and she—well, they pass from her mind, and others take their places, to be pleased and forgotten in turn."

This was a fair analysis of Clare's character. It was also much like the thoughts which passed through Margery's mind, only she did not put them into words. They were not mingled with any idea of blame.

"It is her nature," said Margery to herself; "and perhaps it is not to be regretted that she is able to make so many pleased for the time. I sometimes wish I could exercise the same charm, only I cannot love for an hour or a day. My misfortune is that I love too long and too well."

There was one result of Clare's fascinations that gave pain to the nobler nature of Margery. She could see that whilst Clare charmed and forgot so many of her admirers in turn, she caused no little suffering. "Perhaps," thought Margery, "she knows not what she does. But those bright eyes and winsome ways wound whilst they charm, and often the wound does not easily heal, or leaves a life-long scar."

It was true enough. Clare came off unscathed. She received attentions from many, was impartially fascinating to each individual of those who hovered around, ready to obey her commands or anticipate her wishes. She had sweet smiles and graceful thanks for each; but when men lost their hearts and tried to whisper love tales in her ear, her manner changed in a moment.

"You do grieve me," she would say, as her lovely eyes filled with tears. "I am so sorry. I try to be just the same to everybody. I never dreamed you could make the mistake of thinking that I encouraged anything of that kind. Forgive me if I have pained you; I never meant it. I am only a child—just turned eighteen—and far too young and foolish to think of marrying."

Probably the poor half-maddened suitor would say he did not wish to marry yet. He would wait her time; "any time, if she could give him a word of hope."

"But I cannot; it would be wrong. I do not feel in that way at all, and I shall not marry for years and years, if ever. Besides, I have a sacred duty to fulfil. Do you not know that I belong to Margery? I was sent to her as a Christmas gift from her dear little dead sister. I shall never leave Margery, and if she marries first, as she ought to do, being the elder, I must stay with mother."

All these pretty words would make the suitor more in love than before, and more despairing of ever deserving or winning such beauty and goodness as were combined in Clare Austin.

Barbara's prophecy, "She will make somebody's heart ache," was fulfilled again and again.

At length Margery ventured to speak to Clare on the subject—

"Clare," she said, "I do not think you would be wilfully cruel, but you are so very often."

"I, darling! What do you mean?" and Clare's face put on a look of mingled unconsciousness of wrong-doing and pain at Margery's accusation.

"You know what I mean. How can you do it. You lure people to your side with your beautiful face and sweet words and ways, and you see them getting fond of you—too fond for their own peace. Yet you never do anything to discourage or let them see that what is so serious to them, is mere trifling on your part. Nay, dear sister, hear me out. I am older than you, and graver, perhaps, for my years, but I am still young—barely twenty."

"I look at things with different eyes, and I think it is dreadful to draw men on for the petty triumph of refusing one after another; wicked to inflict wounds one cannot heal; cruel to triumph over bleeding hearts. Perhaps you have not seen things as I do. I think my own heart would almost break if I believed you capable of such conscious cruelty. For myself, I tell you that if I saw that a good man, whose affection I could not return, was beginning to care for me, I would use every means in my power to prevent him from laying bare his thoughts, and offering what I could not accept. Some girls can triumph over the number of their conquests. I would rather gladden the heart of one good, true man, than know that a thousand had ached on my account. I think sometimes that, because you have never known the meaning of love as you have taught it to many, you are unable to realize the pain you cause by your so-called kindness."

Clare listened with dilated eyes and a look of terror, whilst Margery spoke. As she finished Clare burst into a passion of tears and sobs. "I did not know," she cried. "I never meant to hurt any one. Can I be so wicked and cruel as you say? You must hate me, Margery; but I did not know, I only just tried to please everybody."

What could Margery do but try to allay the storm of weeping she had aroused, and to pacify Clare with assurances that she believed her?

Then Clare laid down on her pillow, exhausted with passionate tears, and through the night Margery could hear her sob in her sleep at intervals, like a frightened child; for Clare slept when her fit of weeping was over.

Margery lay awake most of the night, wondering if she had spoken wisely, anxious for the effect of her words, and praying that good might result from them, both to her sister and to others.

For one day Clare was pensive and thoughtful. There were dark rings round her eyes; she was silent and self-contained, and held herself aloof from such of her worshippers as came within her reach.

"I am not very well, and I want to be quiet! Please leave me to myself, it will really be kind," she said, when asked to join in any amusement. But she was secretly happy in the consciousness that she was an object of the deepest interest to the nicest people of several guests then staying at Monks Lea, and that she never looked more attractive than when her face wore traces of sorrow.

The next day Clare was her fascinating self again, the gayest at a garden party, and distributing smiles with her usual impartiality. Margery had no need to fear that Clare's spirits had suffered any lasting depression from her lecture.