Christina Part 29

"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 rather _infra 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, pa.s.sing 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 s.h.i.+ver 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."

CHAPTER XIX.

"PER INCERTAS, CERTA AMOR."

Sir Arthur glanced round the bleak little wayside station with disapproval. The December day was grey and raw; the December wind bl.u.s.tered 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?" he reflected irritably; "and why does she send me such a ridiculously mysterious telegram? Women have no sense of proportion; they must always indulge in subtleties and mysteries." These irascible meditations brought him to the station exit, before which stood a closed brougham, the only conveyance of any sort within sight. Beyond the tiny station, a white road wound away over the moors, but, excepting for two cottages on the brow of the first hill, there was no sign to be seen of any human habitation.

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