She went down the steps and turned homeward, a little shocked at herself at the ease with which what Miss Phœbe had called “the little fib” had been spoken. No one had practised the difficult art of lying less than she, but it seemed to come quite naturally. And not for a moment did she repent it. “If it was wrong,” she said to herself, “God will understand.”
Clara stayed for a moment looking after Jeannie and composing herself. Then she nailed a smile to her face and went back into the drawing-room.
Phœbe was still sitting in her chair strumming to herself on the mandolin, but she stopped as Clara entered.
“I wonder if you could play that accompaniment,” she said; “I want to try the song that comes next, Amore Mysterio.”
“I will try,” said Clara, and seated herself at the piano.
But she did not make much of a success out of it, for, in addition to the fact that she found four sharps even at the best of times a scarcely negotiable quantity, her fingers were trembling, and she could scarcely see the keys. Then quite suddenly, in the middle of the second part, she put her elbows on the piano and, burying her face in her hands, burst out crying.
Phœbe, whose mind had been entirely concentrated on her own difficulties with the mandolin, looked up suddenly at this cessation of the accompaniment. Then she got up and went to her sister.
“Clara,” she said, “don’t cry so. My dear, it is very hard on you, and you will be lonely, I think. But don’t make it worse for yourself, and don’t make it worse for me.”
Poor Clara turned her tear-stained face to her sister.
“Phœbe, Phœbe, I can’t bear it!” she sobbed. “Oh, to think of what is coming! Indeed, I am not crying for myself; but if only it was me, and not you. Oh, Phœbe, I prayed and I prayed last night that I might have this, and not you, and I hoped God would hear me. But I am just as well as ever this morning. Perhaps if you had seen a doctor sooner. No, that can’t be, because Miss Jeannie told me that it would have made no difference.”