Christina

  CHAPTER VII.

  "A VERY BEAUTIFUL PENDANT, WITH THE INITIALS 'A.V.C.'"

  With all her undoubted strength of character, Christina was only human,and the courteous apology she had received from the man signing himself"Rupert Mernside," sorely tempted her. Curiosity to see the writer,and a lurking feeling that he might really be able to find work forher, were mingled with a girlish longing for adventure, and for some ofthe youthful joys she had missed; and all these sensations made hermore than half inclined to assign a meeting-place to this Mr. Mernside.She had known few men, either in her quiet Devonshire home, or when shewas in the Donaldsons' service, and any pleasant social intercoursewith the other sex had never come in her way at all. There rose beforeher a vision of meeting this man of the bold, characteristichandwriting--of perhaps being taken by him to tea in one of thosetea-rooms about which she had heard--tea-rooms where the waitresseswere ladies, dressed in soft lilac gowns, with dainty muslin aprons,and where delicious music was played to the fortunate tea-drinkers. Tohave tea in such a place, with a man whose business it was for themoment to look exclusively after her and her well-being, would be sucha treat as she had never enjoyed in all her life. Her parents had notencouraged any social gaiety; thinking over it now, it seemed toChristina that for some inexplicable reason they had avoided society,and actually warded off those of their neighbours who were inclined tobe friendly. And with a sudden revolt against her own loneliness anddullness, the girl felt as though at any cost she must seek friendship,amusement, distraction.

  "Of course, I haven't any clothes in which to go to a really smarttea-room," she thought, when, in the shelter of her own small room, sheread her letter for the second time; "but there maybe somewhere not toosmart, where he could take me; and he leaves me to decide where to meethim--and--oh! I do want some fun; I do dreadfully want it!"

  The man who would be the central figure of the entertainment, enteredlittle into her calculations. She was far more interested in hervision of tea-rooms, and the smart folk she might be fortunate enoughto see there, than in the man whose "open sesame" was to admit her tothe sacred precincts. And only when some chance train of thoughtreminded her of her recent interview with Lady Cicely, did she reflectthat the person who would sit beside her, and attend to her wants atthe tiny table in the enthralling tea-room, would be a stranger to her,perhaps even an objectionable stranger.

  With the remembrance of her visit to Eaton Square, came also therecollection of the tall man with the grave grey eyes, the manintroduced to her by Lady Cicely, as "my cousin," and a hot flush ofshame rushed to her face, as she wondered what he would think of her,if he knew she was planning to meet a person she had never seen, and ofwhom she had only heard through a matrimonial advertisement.

  He would certainly despise her; and it was not nice to contemplate thekindly glance of those eyes turned to scorn and contempt.

  Although she knew it was absurd to suppose that Lady Cicely's cousincould ever be aware of, or interested in, the doings of soinsignificant a person as herself, she shrank oddly from doing anythingof which he would disapprove.

  "To arrange to meet a strange man isn't really a very womanly thing todo," she said, when she sat down to write her letter to the unknown Mr.Mernside. "I shouldn't ever have answered the advertisement at all, ifI had not been so dreadfully poor, and I shouldn't like to look LadyCicely's cousin in the face again if I met this man."

  The letter was not so difficult a one to write as the first had been,and its recipient both smiled and sighed, as he read the terse littlesentences in the round, girlish handwriting.

  "DEAR SIR,--

  "Thank you for your kind letter, but I hope I now have a chance ofgetting some work, so that I need not trouble you any more.

  "Yours faithfully, "C. MOORE."

  "Well! that's a relief," Rupert ejaculated, throwing the note into thefire; "what I could have done with the girl if she had agreed to meetme, heaven only knows. Margaret would have helped me--but Margaret----"

  His meditations ended abruptly; he drew from his breast pocket a letterthat had reached him a post or two before Christina's arrived, and forthe fiftieth time read it from end to end. The sense of it had longsince imprinted itself upon his brain, but it gave him a painfulpleasure to let his eyes rest upon the well-formed letters of thehandwriting, though a resentful indignation towards the writer stirredwithin him. She had not treated him well, and yet--she was the onewoman in the world to him--this woman of the dark eyes and rare whitebeauty, who signed her letter with the one word, "Margaret." Noaddress stood at the head of the letter, it was undated; and thepostmark was that of the West Central district.

  "Forgive me for having left London so abruptly, and without telling youof my intention," she wrote. "I was summoned away by telegram, and inmy hurry and anxiety, I forgot to let you know. I cannot tell you myaddress just now, but Elizabeth is with me, and I am safe and well. Ihave often warned you, have I not, my dear, faithful friend, that muchin my life must always seem to you strange and mysterious. I can giveyou no explanation now. But trust me still. MARGARET.

  "Letters sent to me, c/o Mrs. Milton, 180, Gower Street, will beforwarded."

  Mernside wrote four letters, each one of which in turn he tore up andflung into the fire as soon as it was written, finally writing a fifth,which appeared to satisfy him, for, having addressed and stamped it, heput it into his pocket when he went out.

  "Drive sharply to 180, Gower Street," were his directions to the driveras he swung himself into a passing hansom, and leant forward on theclosed doors, watching the traffic with listless glances, which onlysaw a woman's dark eyes, set in a white face.

  "No, sir, I couldn't tell you Mrs. Stanforth's address," was theuncompromising reply to his question, and Mrs. Milton's inflexiblecountenance, and flat, rigid form were as uncompromising as her speech;"she bid me say to anyone enquiring, that she was gone in the countryfor a time, and I can only answer the same to you, as I answers to therest. Letters and people--they come on here from Barford Road, and Isays the same to all of 'em."

  Rupert's creed as a gentleman forbade his pressing for the address of awoman who wished to keep herself hidden, but with all the hatred of hissex for mysteries, he moved impatiently away, speculating grimly on theeccentricities of women. Why, when she had a house of her own, didMargaret have her visitors and letters sent to Gower Street forinformation, or re-addressing respectively? What object was beingserved by all this mysterious behaviour? And why was she sometimes soapparently frank with him, at other times so strangely secret?

  True, that her very uncertainty was part of her charm; but, withoutswerving in his unshakable loyalty to her, he felt himself occasionallywishing that Margaret had some of the transparent candour of his littlecousin, Cicely Redesdale. Cicely was incapable of dark secrets, orhidden, mysterious actions; she and Baba were children together, andone was scarcely more innocent and crystal pure than the other--whichreflections brought him by easy stages to his cousin's estates, and hisown trusteeship; and the memory of a paper needing Cicely's signature,made him retrace his steps to his own chambers, and thence to EatonSquare, where he found Cicely and her small daughter enjoying thedelights of tea together, in the bright nursery at the top of the house.

  "Jane has got a sick mother," Cicely explained dolefully; "Jane wasimperatively needed at home, at an hour's notice--and behold me, headnurse and nursery-maid rolled into one, and Baba in the seventh heavenof bliss. If you want any tea, Rupert, you must have it here--hotbuttered toast and all. Dawson won't approve, but I am tired of tryingto live up to him." Dawson was the butler, a magnificent personage whohad only condescended to anything more insignificant than a ducalmansion, in consideration of Mr. Redesdale's generosity in the matterof wages; and Dawson regarded any departure from the orthodox, withdisapproving eyes.

  "You will never succeed in reaching Dawson's criterion of correctness,"Rupert laughed; "meanwhile, nursery tea is much jollier than thedrawing-room me
al. We can eat double as much, and we can spread ourown jam."

  "But you know, Rupert, I can't spend my whole life in the nursery,"Cicely began, when the appetites of the baby and the big man had beenpartially satisfied. "Baba has chosen a new nurse for herself, but--Ican't let her decide anything so important; I am afraid you will callme quixotic if I say I am half inclined to--

  "Is it the young person--James's young person?" her cousin broke in."I knew that girl with the green eyes and shabby clothes was makingindelible marks on your kind heart. But--you know nothing about her,dear, and, as you told me, you must have unimpeachable references."

  "Rupert, to remind a woman of the things she has said in a remote past,is like driving a pig towards the north, when you want him to go there.When you have a wife, you will understand the inwardness of my remark."

  "I shall never have a wife," was the quick retort, "and am I to inferfrom your remark that you are intending to engage a nurse who cannotproduce the necessary references?"

  "I don't know what she can produce yet, but I have written to ask yourgreen-eyed friend of the shabby hat, to come and see me, and--then Ithought we could talk things over."

  "Then 'things' are a foregone conclusion," said Rupert, with a laugh."I know you, Cicely. The girl seemed to have a way with children; shelooked and spoke like a lady, and----"

  "And Baba loved her"; Cicely lowered her voice, but the child, absorbedin putting a consignment of dolls to bed, gave no heed to her elders;"and ever since the girl came here, Baba has gone on saying: 'Babawould like that pretty lady to live with her; can't the pretty ladycome?' And sometimes children and dogs have wonderful instincts aboutpeople, don't they? Baba's instinct may be just the right one."

  "It may. Let us hope it will. There was something verystraightforward about that girl's eyes, and her voice was particularlypleasant. It reminded me of somebody, but who the somebody is I can'tfor the life of me remember."

  "By the way, didn't you tell me the other day you knew of a nurserygoverness who wanted work? Can she come and see me as well? Perhapsyou have found out more about her by now?"

  "She has just succeeded in hearing of work," Rupert answered, andCicely noticed that, as before, he spoke with a trace of embarrassment."I have found out nothing more about her, but I hear she is, or hopesto be, 'suited,' as the servants say."

  "I am very strongly inclined to try the girl who brought Baba in fromthe fog. Something about her appealed to me, and she must be able toproduce some kind of reference. She can't just have 'growed,' likeTopsy, into her present position. Oh! Dawson, who and what is it?"she broke off to say, as the butler's stately form and impassive faceappeared in the doorway.

  "Sir Arthur Congreve wishes to see your ladyship very particularly,"was the reply.

  "I will be down in one moment," she answered; and, when the door hadclosed noiselessly after the butler, she turned to Rupert, and made asmall grimace.

  "Now, what has brought that tiresome old person here to-day," shedemanded of the world in general; "you don't know him, do you? He is acousin of John's; and the most intolerable bore ever created to worryhis long-suffering relations."

  "I know him by name, naturally; but I never had the pleasure----"

  "Come and have it now." Cicely sprang to her feet, and rang the bell."I must get a housemaid to take care of Baba; and you come and beintroduced to my pet bugbear. He and his wife hardly ever come totown. They look upon it as modern Babylon, sunk in iniquity. He ishugely rich, and their jewels are amazing, but very few people ever seethem. He lives in a very remote corner of the country, somewhere onthe Welsh border, about ten miles from every reasonable sort of place,and my private opinion is that he is more mad than sane."

  "Why?"

  "Oh! a woman's reason. I think him so, because I think him so. No;but without joking, all sorts of queer things have happened in thatfamily--dark mysteries, and I fancy even crimes; but John never told medetails. Sir Arthur is a most unspeakably conventional person, but Ibelieve some of his relations were quite the reverse. Come and help meentertain him," she added, when a housemaid had entered the nursery;"he will probably disapprove of you, and tell me later on that yourpresence in the house is damaging to my reputation," she added as theywent down the stairs together.

  The elderly gentleman who stood on the drawing-room hearthrug,surveying the room with an air of disapproval, was, Rupert thought, oneof the handsomest men he had ever seen. White-haired, with a heavywhite moustache, his complexion was clear and healthy as a girl's, andhis refined, well-cut features were almost cameo-like in their perfectchiselling His eyes were dark, and very bright, and they fixedthemselves at once upon Rupert with a glance of suspicion.

  "My dear Cicely," he said, shaking her stiffly by the hand, "urgentbusiness, tiresome family business, brought me to this city of dreadfulnight for a few hours, and I thought I must call and enquire after yourhealth, and the health of Veronica."

  "Thank you, Cousin Arthur; do sit down; I am very flourishing, and Babais in rude health. We don't call her Veronica yet, you know; she isreally only quite a baby still."

  "I strongly deprecate the calling of children by fancy names," SirArthur answered pompously. "Veronica is a name in our family; a nameabout which, alas! cling many sad associations. But still, I amconvinced that if her poor father had lived, your poor daughter----"

  "I haven't introduced you to my cousin," Cicely cut in unceremoniously,feeling that any comments upon her husband's possible conduct would beunendurable from Sir Arthur's lips. "I believe you have never met him.Mr. Mernside, Sir Arthur Congreve."

  Sir Arthur bowed stiffly. Rupert's greeting was pleasant and friendly;the older man's rigid attitude merely amused him.

  "No; I have certainly never met Mr. Mernside," Sir Arthur said coldly;"as you know, my dear Cicely, I never come to this terrible Babylon,unless absolutely driven to do so by irresistible circumstances. Andin your husband's lifetime, I do not ever remember to have seen yourcousin," he added, with a severe glance at Mernside.

  "If you had been much in town in John's lifetime you would often havemet Rupert," Cicely answered quickly. "Rupert was one of John'sgreatest friends, and is Baba's trustee and guardian. But you," shetried to speak more lightly, "you and Cousin Ellen bury yourselves socompletely in your country fastness, that you know nothing of thetroublesome world in which we live."

  "Troublesome world, indeed," answered Sir Arthur, wagging his head andlooking at her solemnly. The saving grace of humour had been omittedfrom his composition, and he took himself, and the whole world, with aseriousness that could not be shaken; "in this dreadful city, youfrolic like children on the edge of a volcano, but one day the eruptionwill come, and----"

  "And then we shall all be little bits of lava, shan't we?" Cicelyasked, her blue eyes wide and innocent, her lips parted in an engagingsmile.

  "You are sadly flippant, Cicely. I had hoped that walking through thevale of misery, your flippancy would have fallen from you. But I fearyou are determined to turn this vale of tears, this troublesome world,as you so justly call it, into a mere playground."

  "A very delightful vale--sometimes," Rupert said, in his slow, charmingvoice; "the troublesome world can be beautiful, as well as troublesome,you will allow, especially if you live in the country."

  "Beautiful?" Sir Arthur glared at the speaker. "But all to be burntsome day--all to be burnt. When I am asked to admire the mountainsnear my home--the woods, the river--I say the same thing always; I say,'It is all being prepared for the burning.'"

  "Perhaps we may enjoy its beauties during the time of preparation,"Rupert said smiling; "until--the conflagration, the beauty is ours."

  "I did not call to-day to engage in flippant small talk," Sir Arthuranswered sternly. "Like Babylon of old, London is rushing on its doom,and I have no doubt that the fashionable throng which numbers youamongst its members, has long ago resigned every serious thought andeffort. Conversation is as loose as manners and mora
ls, and----"

  "My manners and morals are not conspicuously loose, Cousin Arthur,"Cicely said demurely; "but I don't belong to the smart set, and I don'teven want to belong to it, and I expect that is what you meant by thefashionable throng. We live very quietly, Baba and I."

  "Quietly? In all this luxury, this pomp?" Sir Arthur glanced round theexquisite room with a shudder. "One of my designs in coming hereto-day, was to ask whether you would ever care to come and pay us avisit at Burnbrooke, but we could offer you no such luxury as this.If, however, you would care to come, we have peace there."

  "It is very kind of you, and of Cousin Ellen to have thought of it,"Cicely faltered with a recollection of a depressing fortnight spent inSir Arthur's home, during her husband's lifetime; "perhaps in thespring or summer you would let us come and see you."

  "We have been away so frequently during the last three years that wehave seen few people. My poor wife being a martyr to rheumatism, hashad to visit foreign watering places; we have, as you know, been littleat home, and we have invited few guests to Burnbrooke. If you willcome, we shall be happy to see you; or if at any time you would care tosend Veronica with her nurse, to breathe some other air than thepernicious air of this dark town, pray send them."

  Cicely made a courteous and smiling rejoinder, but Rupert thought hecould read, in the mutinous setting of her pretty lips, that she hadsmall intention of allowing her little daughter to breathe thesalubrious air of Burnbrooke.

  "You are in town on business only, not for pleasure?" the little ladyasked, taking a certain malicious delight in seeing Sir Arthur's startof horror.

  "Pleasure? I here for pleasure? Heaven forbid. I have come ontroublesome business. I am anxious about the news of my unfortunatebrother-in-law and his wife, my poor, foolish sister. Ah! well younever knew her, did you?"

  "No, never." Cicely shook her head, wildly trying to unearth from thedepths of her mind, any fragments of knowledge she might ever havepossessed about Sir Arthur's brother-in-law; but finding herselfentirely at sea, gave up the attempt.

  "Poor, misguided soul," the visitor went on, with a solemn shake of thehead; "she would never listen to reason; never believe what I told her.My sisters--Ah! well, well, I must not trouble you with our familyskeletons. I have come up to try and find out if I can where mybrother-in-law is, and to avert worse scandals than already exist."

  Cicely, still completely at sea as to the drift of his conversation,murmured something non-committal and sympathetic, and he continuedspeaking with unabated energy.

  "I also have some business to do with Scotland Yard," he saidimportantly; "my wife has lost a piece of jewellery which she greatlyvalues, and which I also value exceedingly. The loss is a very strangeone; and, after serious deliberation, I have decided to put the caseinto the hands of the Scotland Yard officials."

  "Have you had a burglary?"

  "No, nothing of that kind at all. We can only account for the loss inone way. We were travelling home last week, after a visit, and atLiverpool station my wife's maid put her mistress's dressing bag intothe carriage, she herself standing beside the door. One person was inthe compartment, a quiet-looking young lady, so the maid describes her.We reached home. My wife discovered the loss of the jewel she so muchvalues. It had been put into the bag at the last minute before we leftour friends' house, as she had been showing it to a visitor. The bag,it is true, was unlocked, but the maid vows she did not leave thecarriage door, and that the young person in the carriage seemed to be alady. The fact remains that the pendant has vanished."

  "A pendant, was it?" Cicely asked with interest.

  "A very beautiful pendant, one that, to my mind, is unique. It is madeof a single and very remarkable emerald, set in beautifully chasedgold, and above the emerald there are three initials twisted togetherin gold; the initials A.V.C."