Christina

by L. G. Moberly

  CHAPTER XIX.

  "PER INCERTAS, CERTA AMOR."

  Sir Arthur glanced round the bleak little wayside station withdisapproval. The December day was grey and raw; the December windblustered along the exposed platform, in chilling tempestuous gusts;and the upland country that stretched to right and left of the line,wore a highly uninviting aspect.

  "Now, what is Margaret doing in this desolate part of the world?" hereflected irritably; "and why does she send me such a ridiculouslymysterious telegram? Women have no sense of proportion; they mustalways indulge in subtleties and mysteries." These irasciblemeditations brought him to the station exit, before which stood aclosed brougham, the only conveyance of any sort within sight. Beyondthe tiny station, a white road wound away over the moors, but,excepting for two cottages on the brow of the first hill, there was nosign to be seen of any human habitation.

  "Has that carriage been sent to meet Sir Arthur Congreve?" the oldgentleman enquired of the one porter lounging by the gate, and the mannodded before replying with bucolic slowness:--

  "That carriage be come from t' 'White Horse' up to Graystone, to fetchSir Arthur Congreve. Driver he told me so hisself."

  "Very well, very well," Sir Arthur said impatiently, making his way tothe carriage door, and opening it, before the porter, now engaged inthoughtfully scratching his head, had collected his wits sufficientlyto perform this act of courtesy for the traveller. "I conclude youknow where I am to be driven," he added, speaking to the man on the box.

  "Yes, sir; to the house in the valley; the house where thegentleman----"

  "That will do, as long as you know where you are to go," Sir Arthursaid, cutting short the coachman's volubility, and entering thebrougham, glad to sit back amongst the cushions, and shut the windowagainst the sweeping blast.

  The uplands looked their very greyest and worst on that December day.A low grey sky stooped to meet the hill-sides, on which brown heatherand brown bracken made a depressing tone of colour, to mingle with thegreyness of the clouds, and of the mists that crept up from thevalleys. The bareness of the wide stretch of moor was broken here andthere by a clump of fir-trees, which showed dark and sombre against thegrey background, and the fogginess of the atmosphere obscured the greatview, which was usually the chief charm of the uplands. Sir Arthur wasat no time an admirer of scenery, and to-day he turned his gazeshudderingly from the barren landscape; and, drawing a paper from hispocket, proceeded to bury himself in its contents, and to thrust theouter world as far as possible away from his consciousness. By naturean unimaginative man, he had ruthlessly stamped out any germ ofimagination or poetry, which might have been latent within him, settinghimself with grim resolution to thrust away the beautiful as a snare,and to regard everything about him as merely temporal and destructible.He forgot, or perhaps he deliberately chose not to recognise, that theeternal is set around the temporal, not as a thing apart, butencompassing it, permeating it, so that temporal and eternal are one.He had sternly set his face against all the softer aspects of life,doing his duty grimly, and with stiff back, disinclined at any time toany relaxation in discipline either for himself or hisfellow-sinners--more ready to rule by fear than by love, a man whowould have made an equally excellent Ironside or Grand Inquisitor,according to the peculiar turn of his religious convictions.

  As he drove now along the lonely white road, his thoughts chieflycentred themselves upon Margaret, his beautiful sister Margaret, who,in spite of her sins and follies, as he considered them to be, hadalways held a place in her brother's heart. He gave her the placegrudgingly; he would have gone to the stake rather than confess thather beauty made, or ever had made, any appeal to him. And yet, as hewas driven quickly onwards under the lowering skies, it was hissister's beautiful face that rose persistently before him, her face, ashe had last seen it, when she was a radiant girl, in the glory of herhappy girlhood. It was odd; it was even annoying to him that just thisparticular vision out of the past should fill his mind now, but foronce in his grim and well-disciplined life, he was unable to drive awaythe haunting vision.

  The garden of the old house made the setting of the picture--the gardenthat was now his own, and the sunk lawn, with the sun-dial amongst therose-trees, that had been his father's pride. Margaret had stoodbeside the sun-dial, on that far-off June day, her fingers lightlytracing the motto that ran round the dial's face, her laughing eyeslifted to her brother.

  "Ah! but you don't believe in the motto, you see." The words cameechoing back to him across the years, until he almost felt as though hecould actually hear the low voice again, and Margaret's voice hadalways had such unspeakable charm.

  "You think a motto like this just silly and sentimental, don't you,Arthur?" And once more her fingers had traced the faint lettering,whilst she slowly read the words aloud.

  "_Per incertas, certa amor_." (Through uncertainty, certain is love.)

  "I mean that to be my motto, as well as the motto of the sun-dial";just a tiny ring of defiance seemed to creep into her voice with thelast words; Sir Arthur remembered it even now, and he had answered hergravely, out of the depths of his convictions. He had spoken withsolemnity, of duty, as higher than love; and she had laughed again, herdeep soft laugh, though the look in her eyes had belied her laughter.

  "Love is the greatest thing in the world," she had said, very slowly,very quietly, but the words rang with the sureness of a greatcertainty. "Love is the only thing that matters in all the world,because to love properly is to be perfect. Duty, right, goodness, theyall follow upon love--real love. Love is the greatest thing in theworld. Through all uncertainty--love is--sure."

  Well, she had acted up to her creed. She had loved and suffered for aman who was not worthy to touch the hem of her garment, in his, SirArthur's, opinion;--but women, as he had before reflected, women had nosense of proportion; they were incomprehensible; Margaret no lessincomprehensible than all the rest of her sex. He had reached thispoint in his reflections when he observed that the carriage was nolonger bowling along the smooth high road, but had turned into a steep,and rather rough lane, which wound downwards between high hedges, thatpresently merged themselves into dense woods, ending abruptly at lastin a small clearing, upon which stood a house surrounded by a wall.Before the green gate in this wall, the carriage stopped. Sir Arthur'skeen eyes noted with approval, the quietly respectful manner of the oldservant who admitted him; he had been more than half expecting to findhimself in some kind of dread and unwonted Bohemia, the very thought ofwhich sickened his soul; and Elizabeth, with that air of theold-fashioned maid, who has only lived in the right sort of house,impressed him favourably.

  "My mistress wished me to take you straight to her room, sir," shesaid; "and the doctor asked me to say, that any great agitation wouldbe very bad for her."

  "Is she ill, then?" The question came with sharpness.

  "Yes, sir, very ill. The doctor is anxious to keep her as quiet aspossible; but he thought it best she should see you, her heart is soset upon it."

  Those words made Sir Arthur's own heart contract a little, and beforehis mental vision there flashed again the beautiful radiant face of thegirl in the white gown, the girl who had stood beside the sun-dial,saying in her deep sweet voice--

  "Love is the greatest thing in the world."

  The words still rang in his brain as Elizabeth ushered him into a bigbedroom, and his eyes fell upon the woman propped up with pillows, herface turned towards the door.

  The radiant face of the girl beside the sun-dial seemed to fade slowlyfrom his mind, whilst he stood silently looking at the woman in thebed, the woman who put out her hand to him with a faint smile, and saidsoftly--

  "It was good of you to come, Arthur. You will let us meet now asfriends after all these years?"

  The words were a question rather than an assertion, but he did notanswer the question. He stood as though rooted to the floor, staringat her, in an astonishment too great at first for words. Then he saidslowly--


  "But I shouldn't have known you--I shouldn't have known you, Margaret.I can't believe----" He broke off abruptly, a tremor in his voice, andMargaret said gently--

  "I daresay I am very much changed since you last saw me. In those daysI was only a girl; now I am a woman, who has known so much of life--sovery much of life. It seems as though my irresponsible girlhoodbelongs to another existence, and life has set its marks upon my face."

  "Yes," he answered vaguely, still staring at her. "I am afraid--yourlife----"

  "There has been very much sorrow--and very much joy," she interrupted,as gently as she had spoken before; "and now--I am within sight of theend, and--I am glad."

  He came close to her, and for the first time touched her hand.

  "Why do you say that?" he asked, his usually grim voice curiouslysoftened. "You are ill now, but I hope with care--in time----"

  She interrupted him again, a smile on her face.

  "No, it is not a question of care, or time. I am glad it is not. Itis only a question of how long my strength will hold out. Youknow--Max--is--dead?" She said the words as simply as though she weremerely saying that somebody had gone into the next room, and herbrother started.

  "Dead?" he exclaimed. "No; I did not know. I heard he was in England,heard it vaguely and undecidedly, and I have been trying to find youboth. I wanted to prevent any--any talk--any scandal."

  "There need never be any talk now. He came to England--only a fewweeks before he died. He--had been--wandering about Europe--and thenhe came--to England--to die." She spoke quietly, but the pauses in hersentence, seemed to show what a mental strain she was enduring."Marion helped him to get here. I was too ill to do it, and--I did notdare to do too much, lest through me any clue to his whereabouts shouldbe given. I do not think he was ever safe--not safe for a singleinstant. But--he is out of their reach now--safe at last."

  Sir Arthur's mouth set tightly, there was a gleam of indignation in hiseyes, but he remembered the doctor's orders, and refrained fromuttering the biting speech upon his lips.

  "Marion--who is Marion?" he said.

  "She was English maid to Max's mother--a faithful soul, such a faithfulsoul. All our letters to one another passed through her hands. Shetook this house; she brought Max here; she sent for me; and then--thelong strain told. She had borne so much; she could bear no more.It--was all very dreadful; she lost her reason; she went suddenly mad;and the doctors do not think she can ever be well again. She is quitehappy now, quite peaceful, they tell me, like a little child, but hermind has gone."

  "And you, Margaret, surely now you must regret," Sir Arthur beganimpetuously, the natural man asserting itself, in spite of all thedoctor's warnings. But again his sister's low voice broke the threadof his speech.

  "Regret?" she said. "Oh! no. It hurts me to think that I hurt ourfather and mother, but for myself--I cannot be sorry. I love him so,and for all our lives together, I had his love--he was always mine."

  "But"--do what he would, Sir Arthur felt impelled to give voice to theflood of thought within him--"he was not worthy of you, Margaret. Youcan't pretend that he was worthy of your love?" A great rush of colourpoured over her white face, her thin hands trembled.

  "Worthiness or unworthiness do not seem to come into it at all," sheanswered, her voice all shaken and low. "When one loves, one loves inspite of everything--in spite of everything."

  Something in her tone, and in the strange illumination of her eyes,momentarily silenced Sir Arthur; he dimly felt himself to be in thepresence of a force infinitely greater than anything that had ever comeinto his own experience. He would not have owned that he hadlimitations--to a man of his type, the difficulty of owning tolimitations is almost insuperable--but far down in the depths of hismind, he vaguely realised that Margaret had reached a height to whichhe had never attained.

  "And--after all, Arthur--whatever you may feel," Margaret went on, morequietly, the colour ebbing from her face, "doesn't it still seem fairerto say--_De mortuis_----"

  Sir Arthur bent his head; and before his mind rose the half-defacedletters of that other Latin proverb, which Margaret had traced with herfinger on the sun-dial, out amongst the roses in the sunshine of June.

  "_Per incertas, certa amor_."

  And she was still certain of her love--in spite of--everything!Silence fell between them after those last words of hers; and it wasshe who presently broke it, speaking with an effort, and in moreordinary and matter-of-fact tones.

  "But I did not telegraph to you to come here, in order to worry youwith any of my own affairs. I thought I ought to ask you to come,because a strange thing has happened--a most curious coincidence.Bring that chair nearer to the bed, and sit down. You look so judicialstanding over me."

  Sir Arthur meekly obeyed, feeling within himself a faint wonder, at hisown unquestioning obedience, yet compelled to do what that low voicecommanded. There was a certain queenliness about this woman, adignified aloofness, which had a curiously compelling effect upon thoseabout her. The man who so obediently drew up a chair, and seatedhimself, felt it hard to realise that this was his own sister, hisyounger sister Margaret, whom in the days of their unregenerate youth,some people had called "Peg." It had been almost impossible to see inher changed face, the features of the beautiful girl who had laughedamongst the roses by the sun-dial, and yet, in spite of the changewrought by sorrow, and suffering, and the ploughshares of life, she wasregally beautiful, even more beautiful than in the days of her girlhood.

  "I understood from your telegram that you wanted to see me aboutEllen's pendant, though I cannot conceive why you should know anythingabout its whereabouts."

  "I am afraid I don't know anything about _Ellen's_ pendant," was theanswer. "But I do know something about the pendant you mistook forEllen's, on Christmas Day. The ornament Christina Moore was wearing,was not Ellen's, but her own."

  "Nonsense, my dear Margaret," Sir Arthur answered testily. "The jewelis unique, and I know every detail of it. I hope you have not broughtme here to try to persuade me not to prosecute that wretched nurse ofCicely's. Cicely herself is also trying to make me act against mybetter judgment, and refrain from calling in the police."

  "I think you won't want to prosecute, when you hear why I sent foryou," was the gentle rejoinder. "It was a very weighty reason thatmade me ask you to come, Arthur."

  "Why did you telegraph to me?" he asked. "Tell me those weightyreasons----"

  "A very strange coincidence has happened, one of those coincidenceswhich are more common in real life, than people think. I--havediscovered--beyond all possibilities of doubt, that Christina Moore--isour own niece. She is Helen's daughter."

  For a long moment Sir Arthur said no single word; he only looked at hissister blankly, with a stare of incredulous astonishment. Then he saidslowly:--

  "Our--our--niece? Helen's daughter? Impossible--quite, quiteimpossible. My dear Margaret--you have been taken in by an impostor.Such an idea is incredible. And--what proofs have you?"

  "There is no question of being deceived. The discovery was not forcedupon my attention; I made it for myself. Christina had no idea thatthere was any relationship between us. She was taken completely bysurprise, when I told her she was my sister's child."

  "You have let your imagination run away with you, Margaret. How canyou be sure of what you say? Where are your proofs? I don't believefor a moment, that Miss Moore had any connection with Helen. I don'tbelieve it at all."

  And as Sir Arthur's lips went into a determined line, Margaret smiledfaintly, remembering the days of their youth, when her brother had sethis mouth in just such obstinate curves, if he were in disagreementwith any of his family.

  Very quietly, but very firmly, Margaret made herself heard, dominatingthe man by that strength of personality, of which he had already becomestrangely aware; forcing him, against his own inclinations, to hear herstory, from beginning to end.

  "At present I have, as you say, no proofs," she said
. "No legalproofs. But those should be the least difficult to find. We must getHelen's marriage certificate, and Christina's birth and baptismalcertificates. I have been thinking it all out, when I lay awake atnight. And we must make all necessary enquiries at Staveley--thevillage where Christina lived with her father and mother.Unfortunately, the clergyman she knew there, is dead; and thesolicitor, who seems to have done Helen's business for her, is inAfrica, and Christina does not know his address. But--the pendant, theemerald pendant, was certainly sent to Helen by our mother; and beforeHelen died, she tried to send you a message. She sank intounconsciousness with your name on her lips--'Tell Arthur'--those werethe very last words she spoke."

  Sir Arthur's severe face softened; some of the hardness in his eyesdied away; it was in a shaken and softened voice that he said:

  "It is difficult even now to believe that all this can be true; andyet--there is a certain ring of truth about it. I should like to seethis Miss Moore. I cannot understand why, if she was innocent oftheft, she ran away from Bramwell."

  "She is very young; she was very frightened. She knew she couldproduce no proof of her innocence. And you must remember, Arthur, thatI am the only person living, who knows there was a replica of Ellen'spendant. Christina's coming to me was providential. I--think she wassent into my care."

  Sir Arthur was silent; indeed, he spoke no more until Christina,summoned by Margaret's bell, came into the room, her face flushing andpaling by turns, when she saw the upright figure seated beside the bed.

  "I wished to see you," Sir Arthur said, in the magisterial tones whichwere wont to strike terror into the hearts of guilty offenders. "Mysister tells me a very remarkable story; and although, pending muchmore absolute proof, I suspend judgment, I should like to hear your ownview of this strange thing."

  "I don't know what to think about it all," the girl answered, a littleshrinking fear in her eyes, as they met those piercing blue ones. "Ihave told--everything I know--to--to--her," she faltered, glancing atMargaret. "I can only say it all over again to you. It is all true.I have never in all my life said anything that wasn't true," she addedproudly.

  "Your mother never mentioned any of her relations to you, by name?Never spoke of her old home?"

  "She spoke of her home, and always as if she had loved it dearly, as ifit had broken her heart to leave it. But she never told me where itwas; she never said any name, until the day she died; until she gave methe----and said 'Tell Arthur'--I think perhaps she could not bear tospeak of her people, because she loved them all so much, that it hurther to talk about them."

  "The whole matter must be carefully investigated. I can accept nothingwithout proof, but, naturally, if it can be proved that you are oursister's child, suitable care will be taken of you. And for thepresent," he still spoke in the judicial tones, to which the Bench wasaccustomed, "for the present I shall waive the matter of the pendant.Meanwhile----"

  "Meanwhile, my own strong feeling is that Christina should go back toBramwell," Margaret put in; "it is not fair to put Lady Cicely toinconvenience, and Christina feels, with me, that she had no right torun away, and leave such a kind and considerate employer in the lurch.If Lady Cicely would like to have her back, Christina is sure she oughtto go."

  "Yes, indeed," Christina said eagerly, a little shamed look in hereyes. "I know I ought never to have come away, but I was sofrightened, so dreadfully frightened," and she clasped her handstogether, with an unconsciously childlike gesture, that stirred thelatent humanity in Sir Arthur. Beneath his crust of frigidity, therewas a certain kindliness of heart, and Christina's appealing eyes, andsuddenly clasped hands, moved him to say, not ungently--

  "Well, well, there is no occasion to be frightened now. I will lookinto the whole of this strange business, and nothing more shall be saidabout the pendant, until I have found out whatever there is to befound."

  "I shall leave the pendant here," Christina said quickly, her eyesmeeting those of the old man with a flash of pride, that seemed to giveman and girl a sudden curious likeness to one another. "I will fetchit now and give it to her, and then you will know that I amhonest--that I shall not run away with it. I will fetch it directly,and give it--to--Aunt Margaret!"