Chapter VI

FRANK ANSTRUTHER left Monks Lea immediately after Christmas, but was to return on the last day of the year.

Mrs. Anstruther remained, as she had promised to spend the winter with her old friend, and had no settled home. She was a great traveller, and had only come to England because her son's regiment was ordered home, and she wished to be near him.

This arrangement involved the captain's frequent presence also, and it was understood that he would come to Monks Lea as opportunity offered.

Margery would not have looked forward so happily to his coming again, if she could have read his thoughts when he said farewell to her and the rest.

In fact, Frank Anstruther was far from feeling at ease. He knew that during the last weeks he had done everything but speak of love to Margery Austin, and until Clare came, with her bewitching face and manner, he had thought her the best, purest, most loveable of girls, and had striven to win her heart as a treasure beyond all price.

Now, whilst hating himself for the dishonourable sentiment, he was rejoicing that he had not committed himself in words, and would have given anything in the world to blot these last weeks from Margery's memory and his own. He blushed at the thought. He knew it was shameful to entertain it. He asked himself, "What will Mrs. Austin and my mother think of me?" And yet he could see nothing, care for nothing but Clare, and felt that Margery, mother, Mrs. Austin, and the world might judge him as they chose, if only he could win the prize for which so many were contending.

Frank did not yield at once to this mad impulse.

He fought the sternest battle of his life during the interval between leaving and returning to Monks Lea for the New Year; and he did not prove the victor, as on former occasions.

It was easier to slacken his attentions to Margery when they met again, for the Christmas guests who were still there were now shaken together, and more than one amongst these were ready to contend for the place he had occupied.

How gradually the change came about need not be fully described; yet Margery was the first to see that the old experience was being repeated, but with this difference, that the young beauty who had captivated so many hearts, only to reject them, had exchanged her own with that of Frank Anstruther.

To Margery this knowledge was terrible. So true herself, the selfishness and treachery of the girl to whom she had given an almost worshipping affection, and of the one man whom she had elevated into a hero and on whose truth she would have staked her life, wounded Margery to the core. She stole away to the old nursery, where she found her mother and her faithful Barbara together, and dropping on her knees beside Mrs. Austin's chair, she laid her head on her lap and wept bitterly.

It was so unusual for Margery to give way to strong emotion, that her mother was almost frightened by it. But Barbara said, "Let her have the cry out, mistress dear. It will be a relief. If tears and sobs were not given by God to ease overburdened hearts, they would just break."

The nurse was right, and following the delicate instinct which told her that mother and child would be better alone, she stole quietly from the room and left them together.

Not many words were spoken. Mrs. Austin's tears fell fast in sympathy with Margery's, and now and then she stroked the girl's shining hair, and whispered—

"My darling! My precious child! What would I not do for you?"

"I know, I know you are true, mother, and sometimes I think there is no one else to be trusted but you. Oh, mother, it seems that those who try to do right always come off the worst!" she wailed in answer.

"Not so, my darling. It may seem so in the hour of trial, but not afterwards. Sorrow and suffering dim our mental vision, as tears blind our outward sight. But God makes things plain to us in His good time, and in the meanwhile we have to wait and trust."

There needed no words to explain the cause of Margery's trouble. The girl knew that her mother had read her heart's story, and could divine the severity of the wound given not only to her tenderest affections, but to her sense of self-respect.

She looked pitifully in Mrs. Austin's face, and in a tone that went to her mother's heart said—

"Have I been to blame? You know all that passed before Clare came home. I am afraid when I think of that time."

"You need not fear, my darling. Captain Anstruther may have changed, but when he looks back and recalls that time, he can only feel that my Margery's words and acts were true, pure, and maidenly. Believe me, I would not say this to soothe your wounded feelings, or even to save your self-respect, were it not the truth. As to Anstruther and Clare—"

But here Margery's kiss closed her mother's lips.

"We will say nothing about them, dear. Such things are not premeditated, and our affections are not under our own control. It would have been far worse if poor Frank had learned to love Clare, and she had given him nothing but pretty speeches in return. You will smooth their path for them, mother darling, will you not?"

"How can I ever forgive, when I think of you, my very own child, suffering so cruelly?"

"Go farther back, mother, and think how Dorothy's Christmas gift came to bring me new life, and of all the blessed years we spent together before there was any question of rivalry in love. There is none now."

"Oh, Margery! There is no girl like you for unselfishness. Mrs. Anstruther is dreadfully pained; the knows your value, my darling, if Frank does not."

"I think he does, in a way, too. And in future I mean him to know it better still, by being the best of sisters to him as well as Clare. He has none of his own. But do not let Mrs. Anstruther know. I could not bear for any one but you, mother—"

Such a wistful, pleading look was Margery's, as the big tears gathered again, and the trembling lips refused to form another word.

"No fear, my darling. Mrs. Anstruther, dear old friend as she is, must feel that hers is all the loss. But how are we to hide our trouble?"

Margery smiled through her tears at the word "our."

It was true that she could have no pain her mother would not share.

"By trying to lighten some other trouble," she answered. "I will go to my room, bathe my eyes and rest awhile. Then I will walk to the village and visit some of my poor friends there. An hour by one bedside you know of, mother, will make my trial seem light."

Margery carried out her intention, and came back to Monks Lea in time for dinner, but she did not join the rest at table. She pleaded weariness, and said she would go to Barbara in the nursery, and have tea brought there instead. Later she might feel fit for society. At one time Clare would have insisted on bearing her company, but conscience was not at rest, and she could not muster courage to be alone with Margery, whose pallor was a mute reproach, though she spoke in her usual tone and smiled in her sister's face.

But the girl had to run the gauntlet of her old nurse's sympathy. Barbara loved Clare, but she regarded Margery as an impersonation of all excellences, and "her own real young lady," who ought to be first in everything.

She placed Margery in the cosiest corner, waited on her and coaxed her with little tea-table dainties, and then, seeing that she had only made a pretence at a meal, she broke down and cried.

"I knew how it would be, my darling," she said. "Miss Clare has turned out a cuckoo in the nest, as I told the mistress would happen if she took in the child of that fair-spoken, false-hearted Edward Austin. The cuckoo turns out the young sparrows or tit-larks, and takes their places, and Miss Clare has robbed you of yours."

"Not of my home, Barbara. I am more likely to stay in the old nest than ever. She cannot help being so fair and stealing all hearts. Besides, I love her."

"She might help being false, though, and having her secrets and her meetings with people, and getting letters unknown to you or my mistress. She has always been close and had her secrets."

Margery thought Barbara alluded to meetings with Captain Anstruther, but the nurse undeceived her.

"They have been going on ever since Miss Clare came back from her visit. She has gone to the post office for letters, instead of having them brought in the bag to the house, and only last night I saw her steal into the shrubbery all muffled up. I followed as quickly as I could, but I had to go roundabout, so as not to be seen, and by the time I got near enough she was just parting with two persons, a man and a woman. I did not go to listen, for I was only afraid of Miss Clare coming to harm, but I did hear her say, 'Be at this same tree to-morrow, at nine. I will come as soon as possible, and bring you all the money I have.'"

Margery's face turned pale as she heard nurse's story. In what trouble could Clare have involved herself, that she should need to bribe these unknown persons?

"We must protect my sister from herself," she said. "I will send a message, and ask to be excused from going to the drawing-room. My mother will be satisfied. Clare is certain not to come here, and then you and I, Barbara, will muffle ourselves in wraps and be at the meeting-place before the others."

Barbara agreed, and the plan was carried out, the thick shrubs and a moonless night favouring concealment.

Margery and the nurse saw the strangers step into a little alcove, and shortly after Clare came from the house and joined them. The watchers could only discern the figures, not the faces, but they heard the chink of gold as Clare handed something to the man.

"Here are twenty-five pounds," she said, "all I have at present, but I will do my best for you if you will wait a little. I may be wrong in giving you this, but, if you are really my father—"

"Do you doubt it, pretty one, after all I have told you?"

"I don't know what to believe," said Clare, in a tone of distress. "You say you deceived dear mamma with a tale of your death, because you wanted me to be brought up in her beautiful home and have a child's place here, and you knew she would not adopt me if she thought you were living."

"That is true, dear child," replied the man, softly. "I had not been the best of men or of husbands to your poor mother, but I wanted my Clare to have what I could not give her. I loved you dearly, and I always meant to reclaim you some day. It would be hard for me to be deprived of you now, when I can have but few years to live, and I have a home, though a very humble one compared to Monks Lea. Besides, now you are a grown-up young lady, some suitor may be seeking your hand, and that shall not be given without your father's sanction."

The girl gave a cry of distress when she heard this, but the man answered it by a mocking laugh.

"What! Is there already a favoured one? Then no time must be lost. As to this trifling sum you have given me, child, it is not worth naming. If Mrs. Austin wishes for your society now, she will have to pay for it, and only retain it on my terms."

"You could not be so wicked as to take me from her," said Clare, in an agonized tone; "and to want money, when I owe so many happy years to her and Margery. I will leave Monks Lea and all—yes, all it holds—rather than be used as a means of threatening her or extorting money from her."

Here spoke Clare's nobler nature, and Margery rejoiced that she was at hand to hear it. But she and Clare were alike unprepared for what followed.

"You are right, my child, and I will take you at your word," said the man; and, seizing Clare, he threw a thick shawl over her head, and with the help of his companion was going to drag her away.

But in a moment Barbara's tall figure was behind him, and she pinioned the man with her strong arms, whilst she called aloud for help.

This came sooner than she expected, in the shape of two of the gamekeepers, who were on their rounds. Amongst them they secured the man, but the female had managed to make her escape. Clare was supported to the house in an almost fainting state and taken to her room.

As soon as Barbara saw the face of the prisoner in a full light, she exclaimed, "This is not Miss Clare's father; I have seen Mr. Edward Austin too often to be mistaken."

She confronted the man, and though he at first tried to assert that he was Clare's father, he soon found that this would be useless.

This evening's adventure cleared up once and for all the mystery of Clare's introduction to Monks Lea.

After the death of his wife, Edward Austin lived for some months in a quiet country place a few miles from London, where he had a cottage, and a respectable, middle-aged woman to keep house and take care of the child—she was the Mary of whom Clare talked when she came to Monks Lea.

The quiet, however, did not long suit a man like Edward Austin, and a considerable legacy enabled him to resume his old life. He left Clare at the cottage, and went to Wiesbaden, where he met a brother and sister, named Henry and Laura Marsh. They became intimate, and eventually the lady became Edward Austin's second wife.

The money which had come to him was sufficient to make the marriage a desirable one to Miss Marsh, who was dependent on her brother, especially as Edward Austin's tenure of life seemed likely to be short. He was in delicate health, and during his one year of married life, he never returned to England, but died suddenly whilst wintering in the Riviera.

His widow's first object was, with her brother's help, to get rid of Clare and turn everything that was left into money.

The two knew of the distant relationship to Colonel Austin, and the death of all the children at Monks Lea except Margery. Hence the letter, signed as if sent by Mrs. Allington, and Clare's unexpected arrival at Newthorpe. No wonder Mr. Marsh and his sister made no inquiry about the child, because, unknown to her, they saw her deposited on the platform, having travelled from town in another compartment of the same train.

A singular chance, which need not be here related, had thrown Clare into company with her father's widow, during her absence from home.

Mr. Marsh, being in pecuniary difficulties, conceived the idea of passing himself off as her father, with a view of extorting money from the girl first, and, if possible, from Mrs. Austin also. He induced his sister to show Clare certain papers and articles, which left no doubt on the girl's mind that her father had married Miss Marsh. She knew nothing of the circumstances attending his death, and could only remember that she had been told of it after he had been long absent from her and Mary.

Henry Marsh's trumped-up story and pretended claim upon her were an afterthought, born of his impecunious condition. Mrs. Edward Austin first induced Clare to arrange for a clandestine correspondence by mysterious allusions to a coming revelation; and then brought her brother, whom the girl had not previously seen, to meet her in the shrubbery at Monk's Lea, where he pretended that she was his daughter, and told his tale.

Thanks to Barbara's watchfulness and courage, the girl was rescued and the impostor exposed.

As no good end would have been attained by punishing Henry Marsh, and there was no possibility of his repeating the experiment, he was allowed to depart. Newthorpe saw him no more, and all that had been mysterious in connection with Clare's coming was cleared up to Mrs. Austin's satisfaction.

Clare was lying ill in her own room two days later, for the shock of that encounter in the shrubbery had been such as to keep her in bed ever since.

Mrs. Austin and Margery were by her side, when all at once Clare looked at them with an expression of pain and penitence on her face, and said, in a trembling voice—

"Can you ever forgive me? Mamma, I ought not to be here. I should not have experienced the anxiety, or known the terror those dreadful people caused me, if I had been like Margery, and always opened my heart to you. But I have done with secrets and concealments. I have had a lesson which will last my life. Say you forgive me, dear, dear mother!"

There could be no doubt the girl was in earnest, and Mrs. Austin pressed a forgiving kiss on her lips.

"And now may I speak to Margery all by myself?"

Mrs. Austin assented, and left the girls together.

"Margery, darling, you know—you know!" cried Clare, and then, covering her face with her hands, as if unable to look at her sister, she sobbed bitterly.

"Yes, I know," said Margery, softly.

"I could not help it, Margery, and he could not. It came upon both of us against our wills; I do not know how he could care for me when you were near; for you are a thousand times more deserving of love than I am. But if—if you thought him good, it is no wonder I should, though it was hateful and wicked, after what I said to you, Margery darling. Now I have quite made up my mind to ask mamma to send me away somewhere with Barbara, so that I may not see Captain Anstruther any more. I give him up to you, Margery, and I do hope you will be happy yet, and poor Frank, too."

"Hush, Clare; hush, darling. You must give up sobbing, and let me dry those tears," replied Margery, calmly. "Think, dear. You may determine to run away from Frank; you might even refuse the love he offers; but it would be his to dispose of still, not yours. I am sure he cannot take it back, and if he could, do you suppose I should desire it? My sister, look at me. If ever a thought crossed my mind that Frank Anstruther could be more to me than another, it is gone; and if he—"

"I told him I thought he fell in love with you first, Margery, and he declared he had never said a word about love to you. He never really knew what it meant till he saw me," said Clare.

The words gave Margery a pang, but she did not show it.

"It matters little, dear," she said, "since now you love each other. You offered to give Frank to me. You gave your dear child-self. You came to me long years ago, like an angel gift, as if from Dorothy, and with you returned health and life. We have been very happy, Clare, and now, I trust, you will be happier than ever. You are mine to dispose of, and I give you to Frank, and myself to be his sister, as I have been yours in the past. Have no fears for me, darling. If there were no Clare in the case, Frank Anstruther could never be more than friend or brother to me."

"Miss Clare has got her own way, as usual," said Barbara Molesworth. "She always would have it, by hook or by crook. The tale does not end as one would like; but I suppose it cannot be helped, especially as my own dear lady says she would not have it different for the world. There is one good thing—the cuckoo goes, and the proper nestling stays in the nest. But Miss Margery would not be content till her mother gave a fine portion with Miss Clare. And the captain says, and well he may, that he does not know whether he is most fortunate in his wife or his sister."

Clare and her husband are considered a model couple as regards devotion to each other; but the gallant captain tolerates no hangers-on, and his wife's love of admiration has to be satisfied with what he gives in no stinted measure.

They have a baby-girl—Margery's namesake and god-daughter, and her great pet.

There is one worthier, nobler in himself, as well as in position, than was Frank Anstruther, who is biding his time—one who knows Margery's value; and it is more than likely that before Christmas comes round again, the real young lady of Monks Lea will have followed the example of Clare, and changed her name.

HER MAJESTY'S MAIL-BAGS.