Boxing Day had dawned bright and sunny, but before the afternoon, rain began to fall, and a rising wind was sweeping over the moor, when, between three and four o'clock, Denis Fergusson drove along the upland road. A case of pneumonia in a desolate hamlet had suddenly taken a grave turn, and as he sped across the open stretch of country, his thoughts were concentrated on his patient, and on the gravity of her condition. Having threshed out in his mind all the possibilities with regard to this anxious charge, he allowed his thoughts to drift back to his afternoon at Bramwell Castle two days before, to Baba's winsome ways, to the sweetness of Baba's mother, to his own dream idyll, the dreaming of which had, he was convinced, been such an absurdity, and yet—and yet, the dream had seemed so wonderful.
"People may scoff at the bare idea of love at first sight," he mused, as the car passed on its rapid way in the gathering twilight, "but—sometimes it happens—even to the most prosaic of us." And out of the grey mists that crept over the brown expanse of heather and bracken, he seemed to see Cicely's face, smiling that fascinating smile of hers, which was so childlike, so appealing, so sweet.
"And her eyes are like the speedwell in the June hedges," his thoughts ran on; "such a heavenly blue, and when she looks up into your face, and her eyes look at you, with the wistfulness of a lovely child's eyes, you want to take her in your arms, and kiss her—and kiss her——"
"By Jove, my good fellow, you are a fool," he broke in upon his own inward colloquy, "an abject fool. The little lady of the speedwell eyes, is as far above you as the stars in heaven, and you know it. A struggling South London doctor might quite as well aspire to the planet Venus, as to the lady of Bramwell Castle. The less such ideas are encouraged, the better."
Resolutely thrusting from him the thoughts that had obtruded themselves unbidden, he drove rapidly on, whilst the grey mists deepened upon the country side; the rain that had begun in a fine drizzle, began to come down in torrents, and the wind rose gradually to the fury of a hurricane. Across the open stretch of heathland, the gale broke with terrific force, the rain lashed Fergusson's face and ran in swift streams down his mackintoshed shoulders and arms; and it was with a little sigh of relief that he turned out of the main road, and into the lane at whose bottom stood the lonely house. Here there was a certain amount of shelter from the high hedges and overshadowing trees, though the great gusts of wind shook the trees until they creaked, and groaned, and bent beneath the blast; and even in the depths of the desolate valley itself, Fergusson found himself nearly lifted from his feet by the hurricane, when he alighted at the green gate in the wall. Elizabeth appeared quickly in answer to his ring, and her grave face made him say sharply—
"She is not worse?"
"She seems less like herself to-night," the servant answered, a little catch in her voice; "she doesn't always know where she is, or who is talking to her. I think—she has got to the end. She can bear no more." The expression used, struck the doctor strangely.
"I think she has got to the end." The same feeling had been in his own mind when last he had visited the beautiful, lonely lady; it had seemed to him, too, as though she had come to the end of her powers of endurance—as though, having borne lash after lash from fortune, she could bear no more.
When he entered her room, he found her lying very still, her face scarcely less white than the pillow against which it rested, her great eyes fixed on the leaping flames of the fire, her hands folded on the sheet, in a way which he had noticed was peculiar to her, the fingers of her right hand close clasped about the plain gold ring, that rested on the third finger of her left.
"Whatever the poor chap who has gone to his account was or did, this woman loved him with an amazing love," Fergusson thought, as he had thought a hundred times before, whilst he spoke gently to his patient, seating himself beside her, and observing her closely, though he talked of everything and anything excepting her health.
"Do you know," she said presently, her voice very low and dreamy. "I think I have come to the end." This repetition of Elizabeth's words, and of his own thoughts, startled Fergusson, but he did not betray his surprise, only answering gently—
"You are worn out now. You have had a long strain, and you were not quite fit to stand it." She smiled up at him, an infinitely pathetic smile.
"It is not only that. I don't want to be morbid. I don't mean to be morbid. But something—seems to have snapped inside me—some vitality, some power has gone, and—I have come to the end."
"You feel that now, because of the shock and strain, and because, at the best of times, you are not strong. By and by——"
"Ah! but I don't think there will be any by and by," she interrupted quietly, "and I am not sorry. Life has brought so much more pain than joy—that—I am not either sorry or afraid. Only I wish I could have done more for my world, before I went out of it," she added half whimsically, half sadly, a little smile breaking over her face.
"Perhaps what you have been, has had even more influence over your world than what you have done," Fergusson said quietly; "it is not always the most apparently active people, who have the greatest effect on their fellows."
She smiled at him again, but she did not continue the conversation, allowing it to drift away to other topics, until Fergusson, having given her his orders, and promised to send her a new medicine on the morrow, took his departure.
"What a baffling mystery the woman is," he reflected, as he walked across the garden to the door in the wall. "I am not more curious than the average man, but I confess she has aroused my curiosity. What has her life been? And why has she——" At this point in his meditations he opened the door, and was on the point of passing out into the road, when he became aware of a figure, leaning against the wall close to the door itself. The last remnants of daylight had almost died away, the rain was falling in pitiless torrents, and Fergusson, peering through the twilight gloom, recognised with horror the face of Christina Moore, looking terribly white and exhausted in the dimness. Her crouching position seemed to indicate that she was tired out, and when Fergusson went quickly to her side, and put a hand on her shoulder, she shrank back and shivered from head to foot, lifting such frightened eyes to his, that he peered this way and that, thinking she must be fleeing from some dastardly pursuer. But, excepting for the moaning of the wind in the trees, and the swishing of the rain, no sound broke the silence, and save the girl herself, there was no sign of any other human being in the lane.
"What has happened?" he asked, speaking very quietly, to calm her overmastering excitement; "come into the house out of the rain, and tell me what is the matter. Why, you are wet through," he added sharply, as he put his hand through the girl's arm, and drew her up the flagged path to the front door.
"Yes, I'm wet through," she answered in slow, mechanical tones. "I—I believe it has rained ever since I left the station."
"The station? Have you walked from the station?" They were standing in the hall now, and by the light of a hanging lamp in its centre, Fergusson could see that the wet was running from Christina's garments, and dropping in small pools on the floor, and that the look of exhaustion was deepening on her face.
"Yes, I walked," she said. "I hadn't much money. I was afraid I shouldn't have enough for the cab. They might have called me a thief again—and—I am not a thief—indeed, indeed, I am not." Her eyes met his once more, with so strange and dazed a look, that he began to wonder whether some great shock had unhinged her brain, but he only said, more quietly than before:—
"I am quite sure you are not a thief. I will call Elizabeth, and she will take care of you. Does Mrs. Stanforth expect you?"
"Oh! no, no," Christina spoke breathlessly; "only I was so frightened, I didn't know what to do, when they said I was a thief, for I can't prove that I am not. I can't prove anything. I have only my bare word. Everybody who could help me is dead."
Feeling more and more mystified by every word she spoke, Fergusson rang the bell, and when Elizabeth promptly answered his summons, and stared in mute surprise at the dripping figure standing under the lamp, he said tersely:—
"Miss Moore has arrived unexpectedly, and she is very wet. Will you put her to bed with hot bottles, and give her something hot to drink? Don't let her talk to-night. I will come round and see her in the morning."
Perhaps Elizabeth, in the long years of her service with Margaret, had learnt to accustom herself to surprises, and she expressed no astonishment now; but a look of compassion for the drenched and exhausted girl crossed her kindly face; and, with a comprehending nod to the doctor, she took Christina's hand and led her upstairs, the girl going with her, as unresistingly as a little child might have done.
"Worn out, utterly worn out, and frightened to death," Fergusson commented inwardly; "now what can have happened to bring her here in this condition, and to make her say such extraordinary things about not being a thief. I must tell Mrs. Stanforth what liberties I have taken with her house, and come back as early as I can to-morrow." He ran lightly upstairs again to his patient's room, and told her of Christina's unlooked-for arrival, finding, to his relief, that she was in no wise startled or upset by what she heard.
"Poor little girl," was her soft comment; "we will take great care of her. Elizabeth loves having a young thing to mother; we will do our best for her, and perhaps in the morning she will be able to explain herself. It is difficult to imagine what can have happened; she seemed to be so happy in her work."
"It is impossible to suppose that Lady Cicely can have been unkind to her," Fergusson answered thoughtfully; "she could not be unkind to a living soul. However, speculation is a fruitless task; we must wait till Miss Moore can tell us her own story. I did not dare question her to-night, she was already completely overwrought."
And it was still a very wan and white Christina, who was taken the next morning into Margaret's room by Elizabeth; and Margaret's observant eyes saw at once that all the girl's nerves were on the stretch, that she was in a condition of acute tension. The wish to help this young thing in her hour of need, the sudden necessity for stretching out a succouring hand to another human being, acted as a trumpet call to Margaret's own strong character, and she looked more herself this morning, than she had done for many weeks.
"You poor child," she said to Christina, a motherly tenderness in her accents; "have you slept properly; and are you rested?"
"I woke rather often," the girl answered with a nervous glance about her. "I kept on starting up, and fancying they had come with the police."
"Why should anyone come with the police?" Margaret asked gently; "tell me what has happened—why are you afraid? Surely Lady Cicely cannot have treated you unfairly or unkindly?"
"No—o," Christina faltered. "I think she believed in me, but—Sir Arthur——"
"Sir Arthur," Margaret interrupted, a sudden sharp note in her voice; "who—do you mean by Sir Arthur?"
"Sir Arthur Congreve. He is Lady Cicely's cousin—her husband's cousin." Margaret's white face flushed brightly, but she did not speak. "It was he who accused me of—being a thief; and I was so frightened, so dreadfully frightened, that I ran away."
"Ran away? Oh! my dear; try to collect yourself, and tell me quietly all about everything. Why did Sir Arthur make such an accusation against you?"
"He saw—a piece of jewellery I was wearing, and he—said it had belonged to his wife—that—Lady Congreve had been robbed, and that I had robbed her. He was sure of it, quite, quite sure, and I had nothing but my bare word to give him; I could prove nothing."
"But—I can't understand. Why should Sir Arthur imagine you would wish to steal El—— I mean his wife's jewel. Had she lost it at Bramwell Castle?"
"No; she lost it some weeks ago in a train. A young woman took it from her bag; and they are sure I was the young woman. You see, when I came to Lady Cicely, I only had references from people who were dead, or much too far off to be got at, like the solicitor who is I don't know where in Africa. She took me on trust, and—there isn't anybody here who can say I am honest, not anybody." Christina's words ended in a little wail; she put her head down upon the coverlet, and Margaret's hands softly caressed her dusky hair.
"But why did you run away?" she asked. "Surely it would have been better to face the difficulty? They may think your running away is a sign of guilt."
"I know," the girl answered, lifting her head, and looking into Margaret's face with despairing eyes. "I thought of that so often as I was coming along in the train, but I was afraid to go back. I am afraid to try to face it out, because you see I can prove nothing."
"When did Sir Arthur make this accusation?"
"Yesterday; I think it was yesterday," Christina frowned with the effort of memory. "It was on Christmas evening—yes, that was yesterday. And when Sir Arthur said he would send for the police, I ran out of the hall, and up to my room. I think I was almost mad. I tore off my frock—my pretty frock that Lady Cicely had given me, and when there came a knock at the door, and I heard Lady Cicely's voice, I would not let her in at first. And then I opened the door, and she came in, and begged me to tell just the whole truth. And I said I had told the truth—I couldn't make it any different. And she was so sad—her eyes looked all hurt, and she said she couldn't doubt me, and yet Sir Arthur was determined to send for the police. And—then she said she would send up my dinner to the nursery. It was Christmas Day, you know," the girl went on, a wistful look in her eyes; "and I had been looking forward so very much to Christmas, in a happy homely home like Bramwell Castle; and my new frock was so sweet; and then—to think of having to eat my Christmas dinner alone in the nursery, accused of being a thief," a little sob caught her breath. "But I didn't eat the dinner at all," she went on hurriedly. "After Lady Cicely had gone down again, I thought and thought about the police coming, until I couldn't bear it any more. So I just put on my serge frock, and my thick coat and hat; and whilst dinner was going on in the dining-room, I slipped away, and out of the house. I felt like a wild thing, mad with terror, my only wish was to get right away as fast as I could—I was afraid, I was so afraid. And I did not know where to go, or what to do; and, when the thought of you came into my head, I knew I must come straight to you."
"But, my dear," Margaret's gentle voice broke in, "you say all this happened last night. Where did you sleep? How could you get away from Bramwell Castle, on Christmas night?"
"I walked to one of the nearest stations; not the one they generally use, but another—Hansley—where no one knew me by sight, and there was no train till early in the morning. So I just stayed in the waiting-room all night. They let me—though it wasn't really allowed—but they let me do it, because there was nowhere else for me to stay; and in the morning I came away again, and because it was Boxing Day, the trains were very bad and very slow, and I did not get to Merlands Station till ever so late; and then I walked here."
"Walked here? From Merlands? But, my dear, it must be seven miles."
"It seemed like a hundred," Christina answered wearily. "I didn't know how to get myself along at last; and it blew and rained, and I thought I should die on the road. Only I wanted to get to you."
Margaret's caressing hand again stroked the girl's dark hair.
"You poor little thing," she said. "I am glad you came to me, but I am sorry you came away at all. It will make things so much worse for you."
"But you will keep me here?" Christina pleaded, a look of panic terror in her eyes. "You won't make me go back to Bramwell? You won't let me be given up to the police?"
"We must talk it all over with Dr. Fergusson," was the gentle rejoinder. "I don't feel that I am quite strong enough to decide what is best for you to do, but Dr. Fergusson will know. He has such a sound judgment, and he judges rightly, as well as soundly."
"It was cowardly of me to run away," the girl exclaimed, clasping her hands together with a curiously childish gesture; "but—I felt so alone—so frightened—and I had no proof that what I said was true. I have no proofs now. I can't even make it clear to you, that I am not telling a pack of lies."
"Can't you?" Margaret smiled. "I don't think I want proofs of your truthfulness; you carry truth in your face. All the same, for your own sake, and for the sake of justice, I am sorry you can produce no proofs of your statement."
"I can't do anything but give my word," the girl said despairingly. "Mother gave me the jewel just before she died. It was a great treasure of hers; she valued it immensely. I think she meant to tell me something more when she gave it me, only—the sentence she began was never finished. The two last words she spoke, the very last, were, 'Tell Arthur'—and then—she died."
"Tell—Arthur?" The same startled look which the mention of that name had before brought into Margaret's eyes, flashed into them again. "Who was—Arthur?"
"I—don't know. I never knew anything about my mother's people. I do not even know her maiden name. And that sounds so improbable, that it made my story about the jewel seem more than ever ridiculous, when I told it at Bramwell Castle."
"What a strange complication," Margaret's dark eyes fixed themselves thoughtfully on Christina's face. "I wonder why your mother kept you in ignorance of her maiden name, and of her family? Have you any idea what made her so reticent?
"No; until lately it never struck me how odd and unusual it is that I should not know these things. I never mixed with other girls. We lived a very isolated life, my father and mother and I, and I accepted everything in it without question. But now I realise that it was not ordinary and normal. And I often wonder about it. But—I shall never know what it all meant. They are dead—my father and mother, and the clergyman who knew us in Devonshire is dead; and, as I told you, the solicitor went to Africa; and I don't know where he is."
"But these people with whom you lived—the Donaldsons. Surely they must know something of your history?"
"Oh! no, they would know nothing. I only knew Mrs. Donaldson at all, because she was staying in the village near our home, and mother was kind to her children, when they were ill. She was in no way an intimate friend of ours. And the people—the very few people we knew in the village, were only acquaintances. There is nobody in the whole world who could vouch for my innocence."
"It is a curious predicament. We can only ask Dr. Fergusson's advice, and act upon it. I wish I could understand why there is something so oddly familiar about your face and voice." Her own low voice was puzzled. "I believe I have asked you this before; but are you sure, quite sure, we never met until you saw me here?"
"Quite sure," Christina answered emphatically. "I couldn't have forgotten you. But I think I must be very like somebody, for last night"—she shivered—"just as I crossed the hall of the Castle, I saw Lady Congreve give a big start, and she said to Lady Cicely quite loud, I couldn't help hearing her—'My dear Cicely, who is she like?' I think I must have a double somewhere."
"I think you must," Margaret replied slowly. "It is very curious. But, to go back to the more vital matter of the moment. Did you bring away the jewel which has caused all this trouble?"
"Why, yes," Christina answered simply. "It was on my neck when Sir Arthur saw it, and I never took it off. I can show it to you now." Slipping her hand inside her frock, the girl unfastened the slender gold chain, drew out the pendant, and handed it to the woman in the bed.
"You see," she said, "it is very beautiful and very unique; that wonderful emerald, with the twisted letters above it; the letters——"
"Yes—I see," Margaret's voice was low and hoarse, and Christina, roused from her absorption in her own thoughts of the jewel, and of all that had happened, started when she saw the expression on the other's face. "I see," Margaret repeated; "the emerald—with brilliants round it, and above it the twisted letters—A.V.C. But how comes it that your mother possessed this pendant with the letters A.V.C.? What does it mean? My dear child, whatdoesit mean?"
"She has totally disappeared, and, of course, her disappearance makes Cousin Arthur more sure than ever that she is guilty; and oh! Rupert, it is just a horrid tangle, and I wish you had come home sooner."
"So do I." Rupert, standing by the fireplace in Cicely's boudoir in Bramwell Castle, looked kindly down at his cousin; "but it is really a piece of good luck that I am here now. I expected to have to spend some weeks in Naples, but it turned out that young Jack had given us all a causeless scare. He hadn't got typhoid, only rather a good spurious imitation of it, and he is doing perfectly well. So, having wiped off an old score with him, I came away."
"Wiped off an old score?" Cicely looked mystified.
"Yes; young ass! He played a low-down practical joke upon me a few weeks ago; and I am glad to say he was convalescent enough to be able to receive the piece of my mind which I offered him before I left Naples." Rupert laughed rather grimly; then said quickly: "However, Layton and his practical joke are immaterial now. Tell me about Miss Moore. You say Sir Arthur accuses her of stealing? It sounds a preposterous notion."
"My dear Rupert, Cousin Arthur is nothing if not preposterous, and the worst of it is, that this time he has some sort of method in his madness. It seems perfectly obvious, that Christina was wearing a pendant that had belonged to Cousin Ellen; and they accuse her of having stolen it." Cicely next proceeded to tell in full the story of the accusation and its results, and Rupert listened in silence, until she had finished. Then he said slowly—
"But no girl in her senses would flaunt a stolen thing in the faces of the people from whom she stole it. Common sense might have told Sir Arthur that elementary fact."
"He doesn't know the meaning of common sense," Cicely exclaimed. "He made up his mind Christina was the young woman who was in the train, and stole the pendant from Cousin Ellen's bag, and you might as well try to shake Mont Blanc down, as alter Cousin Arthur's fixed convictions. He frightened Christina out of her wits with threats of the police, and she ran away."
"Pity she did that," Rupert said tersely. "She would have been wiser to face it out; and I can't believe she can be guilty. It is impossible to connect guilt with her." As he spoke, he saw a mental picture of a low, fire-lit room, a girlish face uplifted to his in the dancing light of the flames, sweet eyes full of sympathy, a mouth just curved into a smile, that made him think vaguely of the way his mother had smiled at him, though the girl herself was such a bit of a thing, and so young. "I can't think of her as guilty," he repeated.
"Of course you can't," Cicely said impatiently. "I should as soon believe I was a thief myself, as believe Christina to be one. Don't imagine I doubt her. I never doubted her for a moment. Only—I wish she hadn't gone away; and I wish I knew where she had gone."
Rupert's face grew grave.
"Has she any friends or relations to whom she would be likely to go?"
"I am afraid not. You know she was rather a waif and stray, when I first engaged her as Baba's nurse. You were doubtful then about my wisdom in taking her with practically no references. But she has been invaluable with Baba; and I have learnt to care for her, too. She is such a dear soul!"
"A restful soul," Rupert said dreamily; and, as Cicely stared at him in surprise, a little look of embarrassment crossed his face. "I saw her at Graystone, when I went to call upon Baba," he said, trying to speak lightly, because of the surprise in Cicely's glance; "she seemed to be just the sort of restful, cheery nurse you would want for a child."
"Yes," Cicely answered, wondering why Rupert's first dreamy words "a restful soul," seemed to have no connection with the latter part of his sentence.
"She suits Baba admirably. The poor baby is utterly woebegone without her. Baba calls Christina her pretty lady; and she has been crying her small heart out over her loss."
"Miss Moore went away on Christmas night, you say?"
"Yes; two nights ago. She took nothing with her in the way of luggage. She must have walked to the station. She went to Hansley. We have discovered that much, and she sat all night in the waiting-room, because there was no train till the early morning."
"Then you know to what place she booked?" Rupert questioned.
"She booked to Torne Junction; beyond there we cannot trace her. Cousin Arthur ramped all yesterday, and talked a great deal of bombastic nonsense. To-day, to my great relief, he and Cousin Ellen departed. But he still threatens the police. I am only hoping he may let the police question lapse for a day or two; he is very busy hunting down a derelict brother-in-law."
"My dear Cicely, what do you mean—a derelict brother-in-law?"
"I know nothing about the poor thing," Cicely spread out her hands, and laughed. "Cousin Arthur takes it for granted that I have his family history at my finger ends, and I can't remember that John ever told me whether Cousin Arthur ever had a brother-in-law. But the dear old man throws out mysterious hints about the derelict, who has evidently done something terrible, and he sighs and groans over his poor sister, the derelict's wife, but I don't know what has happened to either the sister or her husband. Meanwhile——"
"Meanwhile, we have no right to let a young girl like Miss Moore lose herself or get into difficulties, if we can possibly prevent it," Rupert said. "Her running away was an undoubted blunder, but it is our business to find her, and try to set things straight. The difficulty is to know where to begin to look for her. Scotland Yard suggests itself as the place to which in common sense one should apply for help."
"I don't want publicity and fuss if it can be avoided," Cicely said doubtfully. "Cousin Arthur's rigid sense of justice, makes him declare with unwavering obstinacy that it is a case for the police, the whole police, and nothing but the police. But being an ordinary silly, fluffy, little woman, I have the ordinary woman's horror of the law."
"You are so entirely typical of the silly, fluffy woman," Rupert said drily, but looking at his cousin with affectionate, laughing eyes. "However, without bringing the majesty of the law to bear upon the theft, or rather supposed theft—for I don't myself believe in it—there is no reason why Scotland Yard should not help us to find Miss Moore. Perhaps I can induce Sir Arthur to hold his hand for the present about the accusation against her. He must be amenable to——"
The sentence was broken off short, as the door opened, and a footman entered and handed a telegram to his mistress.
"For Cousin Arthur," she said, glancing from the orange-coloured envelope to Rupert. "I wonder whether I had better just open it, or have it re-telegraphed straight on to him?"
"Open it, I should think," Rupert answered carelessly; "it may be some trivial matter which you can answer," and acting upon his words, Cicely drew out the pink paper from its orange cover, and read the lines written upon it; read them slowly, and with a puzzled frown, that changed suddenly to an expression of delight.
"What an extraordinary coincidence. You need not wait, James. I will send the answer down to the telegraph boy in a few minutes. Look at this, Rupert," she went on, as the footman left the room. "Isn't it extraordinary that this telegram should have come in the very middle of our conversation?"
Rupert took the flimsy paper from her hand, and as he read the words, his cousin saw an extraordinary change flash over his face—a dusky colour mounted to his forehead, a strange brightness leapt to his eyes; and, having read the words to himself, he read them aloud—
"Come here at once. Wire to post office, Graystone; and any train shall be met. Christina Moore with me. Have made important discovery.—MARGARET STANFORTH."
"At last," he murmured under his breath, as with curious deliberation he folded up the telegram, and handed it back to Cicely. "At last I have found her."
The low-spoken words reached Cicely's ears, and she stared at her cousin's transformed face, saying almost involuntarily—
"But—Rupert—I can't understand. Are you really so pleased to have found Christina?"
Rupert looked at her with a sudden confusion in his glance.
"Did I speak my thoughts aloud?" he said; "look here, Cicely, I am afraid I was not thinking of Miss Moore at that moment, though I am glad, very glad, to hear she is safe. And she is in such good hands, too," he added softly, the light in his eyes making Cicely realise all at once that there was a Rupert she had never known, besides the Rupert who had always been so steadfast a rock upon which to lean.
"It isn't fair to have said so much, and not to say more," he added quickly. "This lady who telegraphs—Margaret Stanforth—is—a friend of mine, a most noble and dear friend. I—had lost sight of her, and—I am glad to know where she is." Although the words were bald to the point of coldness, Cicely saw that the usually self-controlled man was deeply stirred by an emotion that almost overmastered him, and she tactfully refrained from directly answering his words, saying only—
"I am very glad Christina is in such good hands. I must telegraph this message on to Cousin Arthur at once. It is evidently most important."
"Evidently," Rupert replied absently, but he roused himself to re-write the telegram for Cicely; and, only when it had been despatched, did he turn to her and say—
"I wonder whether it would be wrong of me to take advantage of the information this telegram has given me; whether I might go to Graystone, too?"
"But, you see, there is no actual address on the message," Cicely answered, her quicker woman's wit having discovered the omission. "Graystone post office is mentioned, but it is obvious that for some reason the lady's own address has been left out. I—don't feel that I can give any advice when I know none of the circumstances, but—it seems like taking an unfair advantage to—to act on this telegram, which you are not supposed to have seen at all."
"And some fools in this world declare a woman has no sense of honour," Rupert exclaimed with a short laugh. "You can give me points about honour, that's certain. Of course, you are right," he laughed again, a rueful, rather bitter little laugh. "I can't go and hunt her out on the strength of a telegram I was never meant to see. But, my God! it is hard to keep away." He turned from Cicely, and, putting his arms upon the mantelpiece, leant his head upon them for a moment—only for a moment—then he straightened himself, and said quietly—
"After all, I have got to forget this telegram, ignore it, and make myself feel that things are 'as they were.'"
"I am so sorry, Rupert," Cicely said gently, answering the look on his face rather than his actual speech. "Is there nothing anybody can do for you?"
"You dear and kind little person," he answered. "No, there is nothing. Mrs. Stanforth is my friend, the best friend man ever had, and if, just now, she finds it best that there should be silence between us, I am ready to accept her decision. Only silence is—the very devil," he ended, with again a rueful laugh.
*****
That telegram to Sir Arthur Congreve would have been despatched on the previous day, but for Margaret's sudden and startling collapse during her conversation with Christina. The girl's mention of the pendant which she asserted had been given her by her mother; and, the sight of the pendant itself, had produced in the elder woman a terrible excitement, which had ended in her sinking back amongst her pillows in a dead faint. The words she had spoken before she became unconscious, had seemed to Christina like the incoherent ramblings of a delirious person, and in the alarm caused by Margaret's unconsciousness, she had set them aside, and to all intents and purposes forgotten them. Indeed, so little importance had she attached to them, that when Dr. Fergusson came to see his patient, Christina only accounted for Margaret's sudden collapse, by the long and interesting conversation in which they had been engaged, and she added in accents of self-reproach—
"I think I ought not to have come here at all, and certainly I ought not to have shown her how upset and frightened I was."
"Your coming, and even the telling of your story, ought not to be enough to account for Mrs. Stanforth's collapsing in this way," the doctor answered, a puzzled look in his eyes. "She is such a singularly sane, well-balanced woman, that one feels there must have been something quite unusual to account for her fainting so suddenly. As far as you know, she had no shock?"
"No; none," Christina replied. "I mean, I know of no shock. I was just sitting by her bed, telling her about Sir Arthur and his accusation, and she was very much interested, and asked if I had the pendant with me. And directly she saw it, she got quite white, and she said something I could not understand, about the initials over the emerald; and then, all at once, she dropped back and was unconscious in a few seconds."
Fergusson looked keenly at the speaker.
"Mrs. Stanforth had never seen this pendant before?"
"No; never," it was Christina's turn to look puzzled. "I had never seen her until the day she came out to the gate to ask me to fetch a doctor. To all intents and purposes she and I are strangers."
"It seems rather incomprehensible, like a good many things connected with this house," Fergusson said, under his breath. He and Christina stood in what was evidently the drawing-room of the house—a long low room, furnished with the rather heavy and uninteresting furniture of the early Victorian period, the light-coloured chintzes on the chairs and sofas, and the pale grey of the walls, giving the only relief to the dinginess of the apartment.
"I am not more inquisitive than the rest of mankind," Fergusson went on, his eyes glancing round the room into which he had never before penetrated, "but I confess this establishment and its mistress do arouse my curiosity. However, her affairs are no affair of ours," he wound up briskly, "and my business now is to make her——" he broke off abruptly, and looked keenly at Christina, a great sadness in his eyes. "No, I can't say 'make her well'; there is no hope of that; but I've got to make her better."
"Do you mean," Christina asked; "do you mean—that she—can't—get really well?"
Fergusson shook his head. "She is worn out; something has worn her out; whether a long strain, or a great sorrow, I cannot say. But she has no more resisting power; she has come to the end of it all. And she is too ill now to be able to right herself again."
"It seems so dreadful," Christina whispered.
"So much in life seems so dreadful," he answered kindly; "but when some day we learn the reason for all that made things so impossible to understand, we shall know that the pattern has been worked out exactly right, by Hands far more skilful than ours. We can see only such a little bit of the pattern now. By and by we shall see the whole."
"Mrs. Stanforth is asking for the young lady," Elizabeth's voice sounded from the door. "She seems more like herself now; and she wants the young lady to come to her at once."
The doctor and Christina moved quickly away together to the bedroom, where Margaret lay with her face towards the door, her dark eyes full of wistful eagerness. Christina thought she had never seen anyone who looked so fragile, so ethereal; it seemed to the girl as though a breath might have power to blow her away. Yet her voice was curiously strong, and the eagerness in her eyes was apparent, too, in her voice.
"It was stupid of me to faint," she said, putting out her hands to the girl. "I expect I am not very strong, and all that suddenly flashed upon me when you showed me the pendant, came as a great shock."
"When I showed you the pendant?" Christina repeated, and there was unfeigned surprise in her glance. "But did you know; had you seen——"
"Yes—I think—I know all about the pendant," came the slow reply; "though I am not sure that I have actually seen it before—I think I know all about it. I believe I can clear up the mystery that has puzzled Arthur—Sir Arthur—and I hope I can prove to him that you are not a thief."
"But—how strange," Christina faltered, whilst Dr. Fergusson, standing at the end of the bed, looked intently at his patient, wondering whether by any possibility she could be wandering, and deciding that her eyes and manner were too sane and quiet, to allow such a possibility to be considered.
"Not really strange"; a smile illuminated the beautiful face in the bed; "in real life these coincidences happen oftener than people think, and I only wonder I was so foolish as not to see the truth before."
"What truth?" Christina asked, feeling more than ever puzzled.
"Why—my dear—that you and I have a real tie to one another. I think—no, I am almost sure—that you are my own sister's child."
"Oh!" It was the only word that Christina could utter for a long, long moment; then she exclaimed under her breath, "But—how could such a wonderful thing be true? Why do you think it is possible? Could I really, really belong to you?Oh!" She spoke breathlessly, her colour coming and going, her eyes bright, and Margaret smiled again.
"I believe you could really belong to me," she said, "and it was that beautiful pendant of yours which gave me the clue, which made me realise why I had so constantly felt as if I must have known you before. I am sure your mother was my dear elder sister; and there is so much in you like her—little ways of looking and speaking, little gestures—oh! I don't know why I did not see long ago that you must be Helen's daughter."
"Mother's name was Helen," the girl said, "and she often talked to me about her lovely sister, but she always spoke of her as Peg."
"That name makes me remember myself as very young indeed," Margaret answered tremulously, her eyes suddenly misty with tears. "When I was just a wild girl with my hair all down my back, Helen called me Peg. And Arthur always thought a nickname ratherinfra dig."
"Arthur?" Christina said quickly.
"Yes, Arthur, my brother Arthur. Ah! I forgot. You do not understand the wheels within wheels of all this strange discovery. Sir Arthur Congreve is my brother, and——"
"Your brother?" Christina's tone rang with amazement, and the doctor started.
"My brother; and if my surmises are correct, which I am sure they are, he is your uncle."
"How funny," Christina said, a little twinkle in her eyes; "and he very nearly handed his own niece over to the police—if it is all really true. Only it seems like some sort of wonderful fairy tale, that couldn't possibly be true."
"How do you account for the pendant which, according to Sir Arthur, belongs to his wife, Lady Congreve, being in Miss Moore's possession," Fergusson here put in. "I do not doubt Miss Moore for an instant—not for a single instant—but why was Sir Arthur so sure she was wearing his wife's jewel?"
"Because the pendant Miss Moore wears, is an exact replica of the one belonging to Lady Congreve," Margaret answered composedly; "but I do not suppose either Arthur or his wife have the least idea that the pendant was ever copied."
"Copied?" Christina echoed.
"Yes. The pendant belonging to Arthur's wife, is an heirloom in our family, passing always to the wife of the eldest son. But Helen, your mother, dear—I am quite sure she was your mother—was the eldest of we three. Helen first, next Arthur, and then me. I was the baby. And because Helen was her firstborn and, I think, her favourite child, our mother had the family pendant copied for her after she went away. The initials are the initials of an ancestor of ours to whom the pendant belonged. A.V.C.—Amabel Veronica Congreve."
"But my mother never saw her own mother, or any of her people, after she first left them," Christina said. "They were angry with her for marrying my father. She never saw them again."
"No, she never saw them again. Both she and I—married against their wishes, and after I—left my old home, I never went back to it any more. But I think our mother's heart must have yearned over Helen, for she had that pendant copied, just as I said, and she sent it to Helen. She told me so herself. I did not leave home till three years later than Helen."
"Then your mother and Mrs. Moore corresponded?" Dr. Fergusson asked.
"No, not quite that. My father was terribly angry at Helen's marriage, as he was afterwards about mine. But Helen wrote to my mother when her baby was born, and it was then that the pendant was copied and sent. No one but I knew that my mother had had it done; my father was a very stern man. He would have been terribly angry with my mother if he had known of this, and she told no one but me. Arthur never knew."
"The whole thing seems to be growing clearer and clearer," Fergusson said slowly, "and you will be able to make it plain to Sir Arthur."
A shiver ran through Margaret's frame.
"It means—that I must see—Arthur," she said; and for the first time since she had begun speaking, her voice shook. "I must see him, and tell him all the story of the pendant—all—the real necessity for hiding is over," she added under her breath; "it is only cowardice to avoid Arthur now."
"There is one thing that puzzles me,"; the doctor left his post at the foot of the bed, and, coming to his patient's side, laid a finger on her wrist. "I do not want you to worry yourself now, with any more thoughts and questionings. Only answer me this one thing. If you knew your sister's married name, why did you never connect Miss Moore with her?"
"I did not know her real name," was the reply; "she married a singer. She met him in town. I was a young girl at home in the country, and I never saw him. In the singing world he was known as Signor Donaldo; and we only knew of him by that name."
"My father's name was Donald," Christina exclaimed. "And I knew that once he had sung, but before I can remember anything he had lost his voice; he played the organ in the village church, and he taught music, too, and singing as well. But he was never called anything but Moore. I never knew him by any other name. Mother has often told me he could not bear to remember the time when he had a beautiful voice; and I think he must have dropped his singing name, when he lost his voice."
"And he and Helen—were happy?" The words seemed to break involuntarily from Margaret's lips.
"I think father and mother never stopped being lovers," Christina answered simply. "They were just the whole world to one another, just the whole whole world."