Christina Part 27

"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 Devons.h.i.+re 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 n.o.body 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 s.h.i.+vered--"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 hoa.r.s.e, 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, what _does_ it mean?"

CHAPTER XVIII.

"YOU ARE MY OWN SISTER'S CHILD."

"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 a.s.s! 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.