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—