CHAPTER XVIII.
"YOU ARE MY OWN SISTER'S CHILD."
"She has totally disappeared, and, of course, her disappearance makesCousin 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 inBramwell Castle, looked kindly down at his cousin; "but it is really apiece of good luck that I am here now. I expected to have to spendsome weeks in Naples, but it turned out that young Jack had given usall a causeless scare. He hadn't got typhoid, only rather a goodspurious imitation of it, and he is doing perfectly well. So, havingwiped 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 fewweeks ago; and I am glad to say he was convalescent enough to be ableto receive the piece of my mind which I offered him before I leftNaples." Rupert laughed rather grimly; then said quickly: "However,Layton and his practical joke are immaterial now. Tell me about MissMoore. You say Sir Arthur accuses her of stealing? It sounds apreposterous notion."
"My dear Rupert, Cousin Arthur is nothing if not preposterous, and theworst of it is, that this time he has some sort of method in hismadness. It seems perfectly obvious, that Christina was wearing apendant that had belonged to Cousin Ellen; and they accuse her ofhaving stolen it." Cicely next proceeded to tell in full the story ofthe accusation and its results, and Rupert listened in silence, untilshe had finished. Then he said slowly--
"But no girl in her senses would flaunt a stolen thing in the faces ofthe people from whom she stole it. Common sense might have told SirArthur that elementary fact."
"He doesn't know the meaning of common sense," Cicely exclaimed. "Hemade 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 welltry to shake Mont Blanc down, as alter Cousin Arthur's fixedconvictions. He frightened Christina out of her wits with threats ofthe police, and she ran away."
"Pity she did that," Rupert said tersely. "She would have been wiserto face it out; and I can't believe she can be guilty. It isimpossible to connect guilt with her." As he spoke, he saw a mentalpicture of a low, fire-lit room, a girlish face uplifted to his in thedancing light of the flames, sweet eyes full of sympathy, a mouth justcurved into a smile, that made him think vaguely of the way his motherhad 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 soonbelieve I was a thief myself, as believe Christina to be one. Don'timagine I doubt her. I never doubted her for a moment. Only--I wishshe 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 Ifirst engaged her as Baba's nurse. You were doubtful then about mywisdom in taking her with practically no references. But she has beeninvaluable with Baba; and I have learnt to care for her, too. She issuch a dear soul!"
"A restful soul," Rupert said dreamily; and, as Cicely stared at him insurprise, a little look of embarrassment crossed his face. "I saw herat Graystone, when I went to call upon Baba," he said, trying to speaklightly, because of the surprise in Cicely's glance; "she seemed to bejust the sort of restful, cheery nurse you would want for a child."
"Yes," Cicely answered, wondering why Rupert's first dreamy words "arestful soul," seemed to have no connection with the latter part of hissentence.
"She suits Baba admirably. The poor baby is utterly woebegone withouther. Baba calls Christina her pretty lady; and she has been crying hersmall 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 havediscovered 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 ofbombastic nonsense. To-day, to my great relief, he and Cousin Ellendeparted. But he still threatens the police. I am only hoping he maylet the police question lapse for a day or two; he is very busy huntingdown 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, andlaughed. "Cousin Arthur takes it for granted that I have his familyhistory at my finger ends, and I can't remember that John ever told mewhether Cousin Arthur ever had a brother-in-law. But the dear old manthrows out mysterious hints about the derelict, who has evidently donesomething terrible, and he sighs and groans over his poor sister, thederelict's wife, but I don't know what has happened to either thesister or her husband. Meanwhile----"
"Meanwhile, we have no right to let a young girl like Miss Moore loseherself or get into difficulties, if we can possibly prevent it,"Rupert said. "Her running away was an undoubted blunder, but it is ourbusiness to find her, and try to set things straight. The difficultyis to know where to begin to look for her. Scotland Yard suggestsitself 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 saiddoubtfully. "Cousin Arthur's rigid sense of justice, makes him declarewith unwavering obstinacy that it is a case for the police, the wholepolice, 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 saiddrily, but looking at his cousin with affectionate, laughing eyes."However, without bringing the majesty of the law to bear upon thetheft, or rather supposed theft--for I don't myself believe init--there is no reason why Scotland Yard should not help us to findMiss Moore. Perhaps I can induce Sir Arthur to hold his hand for thepresent about the accusation against her. He must be amenable to----"
The sentence was broken off short, as the door opened, and a footmanentered and handed a telegram to his mistress.
"For Cousin Arthur," she said, glancing from the orange-colouredenvelope to Rupert. "I wonder whether I had better just open it, orhave it re-telegraphed straight on to him?"
"Open it, I should think," Rupert answered carelessly; "it may be sometrivial matter which you can answer," and acting upon his words, Cicelydrew out the pink paper from its orange cover, and read the lineswritten upon it; read them slowly, and with a puzzled frown, thatchanged suddenly to an expression of delight.
"What an extraordinary coincidence. You need not wait, James. I willsend the answer down to the telegraph boy in a few minutes. Look atthis, Rupert," she went on, as the footman left the room. "Isn't itextraordinary that this telegram should have come in the very middle ofour 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 duskycolour 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 trainshall be met. Christina Moore with me. Have made importantdiscovery.--MARGARET STANFORTH."
"At last," he murmured under his breath, as with curious deliberationhe folded up the telegram, and handed it back to Cicely. "At last Ihave found her."
The low-spoken words reached Cicely's ears, and she stared at hercousin's transformed face, saying almost involuntarily--
"But--Rupert--I can't understand. Are you really so pleased to havefound Christina?"
Rupert looked at her with a sudden confusion in his glan
ce.
"Did I speak my thoughts aloud?" he said; "look here, Cicely, I amafraid I was not thinking of Miss Moore at that moment, though I amglad, 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 allat once that there was a Rupert she had never known, besides the Rupertwho 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 addedquickly. "This lady who telegraphs--Margaret Stanforth--is--a friendof 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 tothe point of coldness, Cicely saw that the usually self-controlled manwas deeply stirred by an emotion that almost overmastered him, and shetactfully refrained from directly answering his words, saying only--
"I am very glad Christina is in such good hands. I must telegraph thismessage on to Cousin Arthur at once. It is evidently most important."
"Evidently," Rupert replied absently, but he roused himself to re-writethe telegram for Cicely; and, only when it had been despatched, did heturn to her and say--
"I wonder whether it would be wrong of me to take advantage of theinformation this telegram has given me; whether I might go toGraystone, too?"
"But, you see, there is no actual address on the message," Cicelyanswered, her quicker woman's wit having discovered the omission."Graystone post office is mentioned, but it is obvious that for somereason the lady's own address has been left out. I--don't feel that Ican give any advice when I know none of the circumstances, but--itseems 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 abouthonour, that's certain. Of course, you are right," he laughed again, arueful, rather bitter little laugh. "I can't go and hunt her out onthe strength of a telegram I was never meant to see. But, my God! itis hard to keep away." He turned from Cicely, and, putting his armsupon the mantelpiece, leant his head upon them for a moment--only for amoment--then he straightened himself, and said quietly--
"After all, I have got to forget this telegram, ignore it, and makemyself feel that things are 'as they were.'"
"I am so sorry, Rupert," Cicely said gently, answering the look on hisface rather than his actual speech. "Is there nothing anybody can dofor 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, justnow, she finds it best that there should be silence between us, I amready to accept her decision. Only silence is--the very devil," heended, with again a rueful laugh.
* * * * *
That telegram to Sir Arthur Congreve would have been despatched on theprevious day, but for Margaret's sudden and startling collapse duringher conversation with Christina. The girl's mention of the pendantwhich she asserted had been given her by her mother; and, the sight ofthe pendant itself, had produced in the elder woman a terribleexcitement, which had ended in her sinking back amongst her pillows ina dead faint. The words she had spoken before she became unconscious,had seemed to Christina like the incoherent ramblings of a deliriousperson, and in the alarm caused by Margaret's unconsciousness, she hadset 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 forMargaret's sudden collapse, by the long and interesting conversation inwhich 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 oughtnot to have shown her how upset and frightened I was."
"Your coming, and even the telling of your story, ought not to beenough to account for Mrs. Stanforth's collapsing in this way," thedoctor answered, a puzzled look in his eyes. "She is such a singularlysane, well-balanced woman, that one feels there must have beensomething quite unusual to account for her fainting so suddenly. Asfar as you know, she had no shock?"
"No; none," Christina replied. "I mean, I know of no shock. I wasjust sitting by her bed, telling her about Sir Arthur and hisaccusation, and she was very much interested, and asked if I had thependant with me. And directly she saw it, she got quite white, and shesaid something I could not understand, about the initials over theemerald; and then, all at once, she dropped back and was unconscious ina 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 neverseen her until the day she came out to the gate to ask me to fetch adoctor. To all intents and purposes she and I are strangers."
"It seems rather incomprehensible, like a good many things connectedwith this house," Fergusson said, under his breath. He and Christinastood in what was evidently the drawing-room of the house--a long lowroom, furnished with the rather heavy and uninteresting furniture ofthe early Victorian period, the light-coloured chintzes on the chairsand sofas, and the pale grey of the walls, giving the only relief tothe dinginess of the apartment.
"I am not more inquisitive than the rest of mankind," Fergusson wenton, his eyes glancing round the room into which he had never beforepenetrated, "but I confess this establishment and its mistress doarouse my curiosity. However, her affairs are no affair of ours," hewound up briskly, "and my business now is to make her----" he broke offabruptly, 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'vegot to make her better."
"Do you mean," Christina asked; "do you mean--that she--can't--getreally well?"
Fergusson shook his head. "She is worn out; something has worn herout; whether a long strain, or a great sorrow, I cannot say. But shehas no more resisting power; she has come to the end of it all. Andshe 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 someday we learn the reason for all that made things so impossible tounderstand, we shall know that the pattern has been worked out exactlyright, by Hands far more skilful than ours. We can see only such alittle bit of the pattern now. By and by we shall see the whole."
"Mrs. Stanforth is asking for the young lady," Elizabeth's voicesounded from the door. "She seems more like herself now; and she wantsthe 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 fullof wistful eagerness. Christina thought she had never seen anyone wholooked so fragile, so ethereal; it seemed to the girl as though abreath might have power to blow her away. Yet her voice was curiouslystrong, 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 thegirl. "I expect I am not very strong, and all that suddenly flashedupon me when you showed me the pendant, came as a great shock."
"When I showed you the pendant?" Christina repeated, and there wasunfeigned 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 Iknow all about it. I believe I can clear up the mystery that haspuzzled Arthur--Sir Arthur--and I hope I can prove to him that you arenot a thief."
"But--how strange," Christina faltered, whilst Dr. Fergusson, standingat the end of the bed, looked intently at his patient, wonderingwhether by any possibility she could be wandering, and deciding thather eyes and manner were too sane and quiet, to allow such apossibility to be considered.
"Not really strange"; a smile illuminated the beautiful face in thebed; "in real life these coincidences happen oftener than people think,and I onl
y 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. Ithink--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, longmoment; then she exclaimed under her breath, "But--how could such awonderful thing be true? Why do you think it is possible? Could Ireally, really belong to you? _Oh!_" She spoke breathlessly, hercolour coming and going, her eyes bright, and Margaret smiled again.
"I believe you could really belong to me," she said, "and it was thatbeautiful pendant of yours which gave me the clue, which made merealise why I had so constantly felt as if I must have known youbefore. I am sure your mother was my dear elder sister; and there isso much in you like her--little ways of looking and speaking, littlegestures--oh! I don't know why I did not see long ago that you must beHelen's daughter."
"Mother's name was Helen," the girl said, "and she often talked to meabout her lovely sister, but she always spoke of her as Peg."
"That name makes me remember myself as very young indeed," Margaretanswered tremulously, her eyes suddenly misty with tears. "When I wasjust a wild girl with my hair all down my back, Helen called me Peg.And Arthur always thought a nickname rather _infra dig_."
"Arthur?" Christina said quickly.
"Yes, Arthur, my brother Arthur. Ah! I forgot. You do not understandthe wheels within wheels of all this strange discovery. Sir ArthurCongreve is my brother, and----"
"Your brother?" Christina's tone rang with amazement, and the doctorstarted.
"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 verynearly handed his own niece over to the police--if it is all reallytrue. Only it seems like some sort of wonderful fairy tale, thatcouldn'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--notfor a single instant--but why was Sir Arthur so sure she was wearinghis wife's jewel?"
"Because the pendant Miss Moore wears, is an exact replica of the onebelonging to Lady Congreve," Margaret answered composedly; "but I donot suppose either Arthur or his wife have the least idea that thependant was ever copied."
"Copied?" Christina echoed.
"Yes. The pendant belonging to Arthur's wife, is an heirloom in ourfamily, passing always to the wife of the eldest son. But Helen, yourmother, dear--I am quite sure she was your mother--was the eldest of wethree. Helen first, next Arthur, and then me. I was the baby. Andbecause Helen was her firstborn and, I think, her favourite child, ourmother had the family pendant copied for her after she went away. Theinitials are the initials of an ancestor of ours to whom the pendantbelonged. A.V.C.--Amabel Veronica Congreve."
"But my mother never saw her own mother, or any of her people, aftershe first left them," Christina said. "They were angry with her formarrying my father. She never saw them again."
"No, she never saw them again. Both she and I--married against theirwishes, and after I--left my old home, I never went back to it anymore. But I think our mother's heart must have yearned over Helen, forshe 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 laterthan 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 herbaby 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 verystern man. He would have been terribly angry with my mother if he hadknown of this, and she told no one but me. Arthur never knew."
"The whole thing seems to be growing clearer and clearer," Fergussonsaid 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 timesince she had begun speaking, her voice shook. "I must see him, andtell him all the story of the pendant--all--the real necessity forhiding is over," she added under her breath; "it is only cowardice toavoid Arthur now."
"There is one thing that puzzles me,"; the doctor left his post at thefoot of the bed, and, coming to his patient's side, laid a finger onher wrist. "I do not want you to worry yourself now, with any morethoughts and questionings. Only answer me this one thing. If you knewyour sister's married name, why did you never connect Miss Moore withher?"
"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 Inever 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 thatonce he had sung, but before I can remember anything he had lost hisvoice; 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 couldnot bear to remember the time when he had a beautiful voice; and Ithink he must have dropped his singing name, when he lost his voice."
"And he and Helen--were happy?" The words seemed to breakinvoluntarily from Margaret's lips.
"I think father and mother never stopped being lovers," Christinaanswered simply. "They were just the whole world to one another, justthe whole whole world."
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