"She loved her husband very much," Christina put in gently.

"Oh! she loved him--she loved him far too much," Sir Arthur answered testily. "I cannot understand, I never shall be able to understand, how a woman can throw away all her heart and life, on a man who is totally unworthy of her."

Back into Christina's mind flashed the remembrance of words Margaret had spoken long before: "You don't know what it is to care so much for a man, that no matter what he is or does, he is your world, your whole world," but it was Cicely, not she who answered sagely--

"I don't believe a man can ever really understand the way a woman loves. A woman's love is made up of so many ingredients, she herself can hardly a.n.a.lyse it, and no man could ever begin to get near its true a.n.a.lysis."

Sir Arthur looked at her with the kindly smile of one who listens to the prattling of a child, then resumed his own train of thought and words, as if she had not spoken at all.

"My brother-in-law was a perpetual source of anxiety to me," he said; "not that I knew him. I only saw him once, and I was not favourably impressed on that occasion; but I can honestly say that until I heard he was in his grave, I had no really quiet moments."

"I know nothing of the story," Cicely said; "I have only heard you speak of your brother-in-law, as if the subject was a painful one. I do not even know his name."

"He was a Russian by birth--no, don't go, there need be no secret about the matter, certainly not from you, who were so good to my poor sister," Sir Arthur said, as Fergusson showed signs of leaving the room. "Max Petrovitch was his real name, and my sister originally met him at the house of friends in town. He was then closely connected with the Young Russia movement--or rather, to call things by their true names, he was a red-hot Nihilist. Margaret--went with him to Siberia, you know."

Cicely uttered an exclamation, but Sir Arthur went on without pause.

"Yes, she went to Siberia with him. I don't know on what precise count he was exiled, but he was always on the side of revolutionary methods, as against those of law and order, and although I believe--I do firmly believe--that he never had a hand in any scheme of a.s.sa.s.sination, still, he was tarred with the pitch-black brush of anarchy. There is no doubt that the time in Siberia sowed the seeds of Margaret's ill-health; it sapped her strength and vitality; it was--the beginning of the end. Her maid Elizabeth has told me the truth about it all."

He was silent for a few seconds before resuming.

"Then Max--escaped, and for a long time, I understand, Margaret knew nothing of his whereabouts; but she herself, by his wish, left Siberia, and went to Paris, and there--after what vicissitudes G.o.d only knows--he joined her, for a time. But--here the inherent weakness of the man appeared. G.o.d forbid that I should be unfair to the dead--but, he was a coward; and because he was afraid, because he was afraid of being recaptured, and sent back to Siberia, he gave up the party to which he belonged--he sold himself to the Secret Police. And from the moment that was known, he must have led a life of horror. His footsteps were dogged; he was tracked down from place to place; he was a doomed man, and he knew it. Certainly he was guarded to an extent by the Secret Police, but, those who wanted his life cared very little for that. I believe he wandered over Europe, seeking a place of safety in vain, and at last--ill, worn-out, and despairing--he came to England, to die in that lonely house in the valley, where Margaret has also died. Her illness sent her back to her own land; she could not travel about with him, but when they got him there, they sent for her, and she was with him to the last."

"Poor soul! oh, poor soul!" Cicely said softly. "And she loved him through it all?"

"She loved him with a most amazing love," Fergusson put in, speaking for the first time. "I was there during his last illness, and at his death; and, as I said before, I say it again: 'G.o.d grant to every man when death comes, to have such a woman, and such a woman's love, with him at the last!'"

He spoke gravely, and as his words ended, he looked at Cicely, and their eyes met in a long involuntary glance, which, as Christina caught it, seemed to her full of some strange meaning, that set her own heart athrob.

CHAPTER XXI.

"IF YOU GO ACROSS THE SEA!"

"Such money as Margaret had she has left to you, Christina, and in telling you this, I should like to make a final protest against your remaining in Lady Cicely's household, in a subordinate and dependent position."

"How dear of Aunt Margaret--how very, very dear of her, to give me her money," Christina said; "and with that money I shouldn't be dependent any more, should I?" and she looked into Sir Arthur's grim face, with a smile whose inner meaning that worthy did not feel quite able to fathom. Was it merely the smile of guileless simplicity, or was she, in a mild way, presuming to chaff him?

"In the stricter sense of the word, no, you would not be dependent.

But that is a mere shuffling of words. You would still be in a subordinate position here, and the position is a false one."

Christina, standing by the window in Cicely's great London drawing-room, devoutly wished that somebody would come in, or that something would happen, to end this interview with her uncle, who never failed to have one of two disastrous effects upon her: either he made her feel angry--really viciously angry, as she expressed it--or he made her hopelessly inclined to giggle.

"And to-day I want to giggle," she said to herself, "and if I do, he will never forgive me or forget."

Aloud she said, with a gravity she was far from feeling--

"I don't want to be rude and contradict you, Uncle Arthur, but I cannot feel I am in a false position here. Cicely really needs me, for herself, as well as for Baba; this is a very happy home for me, and, because I still take care of Baba just as I did before, I don't feel I am doing anything beneath my dignity, or--subordinate."

"I wish I could make you understand the fitness of things," Sir Arthur answered, with a grieved air, which never failed to amuse his niece.

"Your Aunt Ellen and I would gladly offer you a home, but--I fear that, at the bottom of your heart, this Babylon, this Vanity Fair, makes an appeal to you."

"I do like London," was the frank response, "and though it is very good of you to ask me to come to your house, I think I am really wanted here. Cicely would miss me, Baba would miss me, and--I like doing all I can for them. Cicely has been so good to me all through."

"Wilful woman," Sir Arthur said, with a shrug of the shoulders; "you often remind me of your poor Aunt Margaret. You have her set obstinacy of character. She was never able to see any other point of view but her own, and you are very like her."

"I--should like to be like Aunt Margaret," the girl answered; "and if she did like her own points of view, I think they were always very beautiful views. I have never met anybody like her."

"She was a good woman," Sir Arthur said, smitten with sudden compunction. "I had no business to say a word against her; she was a good woman, but the thought of her wasted life hurts me."

"Not wasted," Christina said; "I don't think her life was wasted. Her influence can't die away, even now. It was such a wonderful influence--like herself, so beautiful."

"Yes," he repeated, "poor Margaret. She was a good woman, and it hurts me to think of all the trouble of her life. You are like her in many ways. G.o.d grant that your life may not hold the sorrows her life held."

Uncle and niece were silent for a few moments after those solemnly-uttered words, and Christina stood looking out across the square, where the trees waved delicate green leaves against a background of May sky, her thoughts full of the beautiful woman who had entered so strangely into her life, through whose instrumentality so vast a change had come to her.

From first to last, Margaret's personality had made a great appeal to Christina, and looking out now into the May sunshine, across the fragrant window-boxes of geranium and mignonette, a vivid recollection came to her of that December afternoon, when Margaret had stood in the lane, pleading with her to fetch a doctor. What apparent inconsequence had led her to drive past that lonely house in the lane, and how strange had been the outcome of that inconsequent drive.

What big results had rested upon such a seemingly small event! Her relationship to Sir Arthur and his sister Margaret, would probably never have been discovered, but for that meeting in the lane; and no one but Margaret would ever have been able to elucidate the mystery about the emerald pendant. It was strange, so strange as to be like some story-book happening, instead of an event in real, everyday life!

Sir Arthur's voice brought her back from her thoughts of the past.

"I am sorry, my dear Christina, that you have made up your mind to stay here, in the very anomalous position you now occupy. But, I quite see that it is useless to argue further with you. If, however, you should, at some future date, see things differently, your Aunt Ellen and I will still be willing to offer you a home under our roof."

Christina's thanks were none the less warm, because, in her heart of hearts, she decided that no power on earth would ever induce her to make a home with her uncle and aunt.

"But I couldn't live with them, could I?" she said to Cicely an hour later, when the two sat together in the rose-coloured boudoir, which, at Christina's first visit to the house, had aroused her deep admiration. "Uncle Arthur is so--so very kind, but----"

"But, he moves along like a horse in blinkers, and he cannot see anything on either side of him, and not much in front."

"He says I am like Aunt Margaret, and that she only saw one point of view," Christina answered demurely.

"Then, my dear, it is evidently a family failing," Cicely retorted; "but never mind what Cousin Arthur says. You are to stay with me, and be as happy as you can, and because you are sweet enough still to look after Baba, that does not lower you in anyone's eyes."

"One argument Uncle Arthur used to try and induce me not to stay here, was, that you might marry again, and then, he said, I should be stranded."

The colour flew into Cicely's face, but she answered collectedly--

"Why should Cousin Arthur think absurdities of that kind? I----"

"He said you were very young, and--very attractive"--Christina laughed, a low, mischievous laugh, as the colour deepened on the other's face--"and he would have it, too, that people would want to marry you for your money and position."

"I have no intention of marrying again," Cicely said firmly, "and, if I did, I hope I should have sense enough to know whether I was wanted for my stupid position, or for myself."

"There are some people," Christina said, the words coming from her lips almost involuntarily "who would be afraid to ask you to marry them, just because of your money and position."

"I don't see why a man's silly pride should stand in the way of his love," Cicely retorted; but Christina shook her head sagely.