Christina Read online

  Produced by Al Haines

  Cover art]

  CHRISTINA

  BY

  L. G. MOBERLY

  _Author of "Hope, My Wife," "That Preposterous Will," etc._

  WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED

  LONDON, MELBOURNE & TORONTO

  1912

  Dedicated to

  WINIFRED V. WALKER,

  WITH MUCH LOVE.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER

  I. "THE LITTLE PRACTICAL JOKE" II. "MUMMY'S BABA--DAT'S ALL" III. "ONE OF THE BEST THINGS LEFT" IV. "I SUPPOSE IT WAS AN HOUR" V. "I KNOW THIS IS WORTH A LOT OF MONEY" VI. "BABA LOVES YOU VERY MUCH". VII. "A VERY BEAUTIFUL PENDANT, WITH THE INITIALS 'A.V.C.'" VIII. "IT IS A MATTER OF LIFE AND DEATH" IX. "A VERY BEAUTIFUL LADY" X. "IT IS ONLY HE WHO MATTERS!" XI. "YOU CAN TRUST DR. FERGUSSON" XII. "YOU ARE JUST 'ZACKLY LIKE THE PRINCE" XIII. "YOU HAVE BEEN A FRIEND TO ME TO-DAY" XIV. "I AM QUITE SURE YOU NEED NOT BE AFRAID" XV. "I DO TRUST, CICELY, YOU KEEP HER IN HER PLACE" XVI. "MY MOTHER GAVE IT TO ME" XVII. "WHO DO YOU MEAN BY SIR ARTHUR?" XVIII. "YOU ARE MY OWN SISTER'S CHILD" XIX. "PER INCERTAS, CERTA AMOR" XX. "SHE HAS A SWEET, STRONG SOUL" XXI. "IF YOU GO ACROSS THE SEA!" XXII. "I CAME TO-DAY TO TELL YOU SO" XXIII. "THE KING OF MY KINGDOM"

  CHRISTINA.

  CHAPTER I.

  "THE LITTLE PRACTICAL JOKE."

  "Don't be a silly ass, Layton. Do I look the sort of man to play sucha fool's trick?"

  "My dear fellow, there's no silly ass about it. You, a lonelybachelor, and not badly off--desirous of settling down into quiet,domestic life, would like to find a young lady of refined and culturedtastes who would meet you with--a view to matrimony. I'll take my oathyou are as ready as this gentleman is, to swear you will make anexcellent husband, kind, domesticated, and----"

  Further speech was checked by a well-directed cushion, which descendedplump upon the speaker's bronzed and grinning countenance, momentarilyobliterating grin and countenance alike, whilst a shout of laughterwent up from the other occupants of the smoking-room.

  "Jack, my boy, Mernside wasn't far wrong when he defined you as a sillyass," drawled a man who leant against the mantelpiece, smoking acigarette, and looking with amused eyes at the squirming figure underthe large cushion; "what unutterable drivel are you reading? Is the_Sunday Recorder_ responsible for that silly rot?"

  "The _Sunday Recorder_ is responsible for what you are pleased to callsilly rot," answered the young man, who had now flung aside thecushion, and sat upright, looking at his two elders with laughing eyes,whilst he clutched a newspaper in one hand, and tried to smooth hisrumpled hair with the other. "The _Sunday Recorder_ has a matrimonialcolumn--and--knowing poor old Rupert to be a lonely bachelor, not badlyoff, and desirous of settling down into quiet domestic life, etc.,etc.--see the printed page"--he waved the journal over his head--"Imerely wished to recommend my respected cousin to insert anadvertisement on these lines, in next Sunday's paper."

  "Because some wretched bounders choose to advertise for wives in theSunday papers, I don't see where I come in," said a quiet andsingularly musical voice--that of the third man in the room--he who amoment before had flung the large cushion at young Layton. He wassitting in an armchair drawn close to the glowing fire, his handsclasped under his head, his face full of languid amusement, turnedtowards the grinning youth upon the sofa. Without being precisely ahandsome man, Rupert Mernside's was a striking personality, and hisface not one to be overlooked, even in a crowd. There was strength inhis well-cut mouth and jaw; and the rather deeply-set grey eyes heldhumour, and a certain masterfulness, which dominated less powerfulcharacters than his own.

  In those eyes there was a charm which neutralised his somewhat severeand rugged features, but in Rupert Mernside's voice lay his greatestattraction; and a lady of his acquaintance had once been heard to saythat with such a voice as his, he could induce anyone to follow himround the world.

  Why he had remained so long a bachelor had long been matter forspeculation, not only to the feminine portion of the community, butalso to his men friends; but thirty-five still found Rupert Mernsideunmarried, and the manoeuvres of match-making mothers, and of daughterstrained to play up to their mothers' tactics, had hitherto failed tolead him in the desired direction.

  "My dear Rupert," his young cousin said solemnly, after a pause, "youare a bachelor--the fact is painfully self-evident; you have enoughmoney to--settle down and become domesticated. There arehundreds--no--thousands of young women in the world, who would 'meetyou with a view to matrimony.' It seems a crying shame that you shouldwaste your sweetness on the desert air--when you might be blooming in afair lady's garden."

  "You utter young rotter," Mernside ejaculated, laughing as he rose, andstretched himself, "if you are so keen on matrimonial advertisements,why not put one in on your own account?"

  "Awful sport," Layton ejaculated; "think of the piles of letters youwould get from every kind of marriageable woman--old and young. Andyou might arrange to meet any number of them at different places, andhave no end of a ripping time. You only have to ask them to meet youwith a view to matrimony; the matrimony needn't come off, unless bothparties are satisfied."

  "Silly ass!" Mernside exclaimed again, with a laugh that mitigated thewords, "one of these days you'll find yourself in some unpleasantlytangled web, my boy, if you play the goat over matrimonialadvertisements. Better leave well alone and come up to Handwell Manorwith me. Cicely wants a message taken to the Dysons."

  "Cicely's messages are like the poor--always with us," the younger mananswered flippantly; "no, thank you, Rupert; on this genial andpleasant November afternoon, when you can't see half a mile ahead ofyou for the mist, and the country lanes are two feet deep in mud, Iprefer the smoking-room fire. Besides, I have letters to write."

  "I'll go with you, Mernside"; the man who had been lounging against themantelpiece straightened himself, and flung away the end of hiscigarette; "Cicely won't be down till tea-time; she is spending theafternoon in the nursery, looking after the small girl. Confoundednuisance for her that the nurse had to go off in a hurry like this, formy respected sister was not intended by nature for the care ofchildren."

  "Fortunate she has only one," Mernside answered; "what would she havedone with a large family party?"

  "Managed by hook or by crook to get a party of nurses and nurserymaidsto mind them," laughed the other man; "she's the dearest little soulalive, but Cicely never ought to have been a mother, though I shouldn'tsay that, excepting to you two who are members of the family, and knowof what stuff Cicely and I are made."

  Mernside and Layton joined in the laughter, and the younger man saidlazily:

  "Cicely's just Cicely; you can't imagine her less perfect than she is,and you, Wilfrid, being merely her brother, are not entitled to give anopinion about her. Rupert and I, as cousins, see her in a truerperspective. Bless her sweet heart! She makes a perfect chatelainefor this delectable castle, and the small heiress couldn't have asweeter guardian."

  "Hear, hear," Mernside murmured, touching Layton's shoulder with akindly, almost caressing touch, as he and his cousin, Lord WilfridStaynes, went out of the room, leaving the young man in sole possession.

  Left alone, Layton stretched himself again, yawned, lighted acigarette, and, strolling to the window, looked at the not veryinviting prospect outside. Bramwell Castle stood on the slope of ahill, and on even moderately fine days, the view commanded, not only bythe window of the smoking-room, but by every window on that side of thehouse, was one of the wildest, and most beautiful in the county. But,on this Sunday afternoon in November, nothing more was visible than thebroad gravel terrace immediately below the house, and a grass lawn thatsloped abruptly from the terrace, and was dotted with trees.E
verything beyond the lawn was swallowed up in a white mist thatdrifted over the tree-tops, and clung to the dank grass, blotting outcompletely all trace of the park, that swept downwards from the lawn,and of the great landscape which stretched from the woodlands to thefar-away hills. Park, woods, and hills were visible to Jack Laytononly in the eyes of his imagination; he could see none of them, and,with a shiver and a shrug of the shoulders, he turned back into thewarm fire-lit room.

  Thanks to his close relationship to Lady Cicely Redesdale, the mistressof the house, to whom he had always been more of younger brother thancousin, he had _carte blanche_ to be at the Castle whenever he chose,and to treat the house as if it were in reality, what he assuredly madeof it--his actual home. Both to him--and to Cicely's other cousin,Rupert Mernside--the late John Redesdale, her husband, had extended thefullest and most warm hospitality; and since his death, it had stillremained a recognised thing that the two cousins should spend theirweekends at Bramwell, whenever Lady Cicely and her little daughter werethere. The kindly millionaire who had married the lovely butimpecunious Cicely Staynes, one of the numerous daughters of the Earlof Netherhall, possessed a host of hospitable instincts, and the Castlehad opened its gates wide to Cicely's relations and friends. Only onereservation had been made by honest John Redesdale. No man or woman ofdoubtful reputation, or damaged character, was allowed to be the guestof his wife; and the shadier members of Society never set foot withinany house of which the millionaire was master. Jack Layton, strollingidly now across the smoking-room, whose panelled walls and carvedfurniture had been Redesdale's pride and joy, glanced up at themantelpiece, over which hung a portrait of the dead man.

  "Poor old John," the young man reflected, as he kicked a coal back intoits place in the fire; "he was one of the best chaps that everlived--even if he hadn't many good looks with which to bless himself."He looked up again at the plain but kindly features of the man in theportrait, and a smile crossed his pleasant young face, as his eyes metthe pictured eyes above him.

  "It wasn't a love match, of course," his thoughts ran on; "at least, Idon't suppose Cicely loved the dear old fellow. Well; he was thirtyyears her senior, so who could wonder? But they were jolly happy, forall that; John worshipped the ground her pretty feet walked upon, andhe was her master, without ever letting her feel his hand through theglove. Cicely wants a master--all women do want a master," Jack waggedhis head sagely, when his thoughts reached this point. Having attainedto the ripe age of twenty-five, he felt he had plumbed the nature ofwoman to its lowest depths, "and Cicely was lucky to find a master whocould give her a place like this." He sauntered away from thefireplace, and next surveyed the well-stocked bookcases, but althoughthey contained every variety of literature, nothing he saw appealed tohis fastidious taste of the moment--and, yawning afresh, he once morepicked up the _Sunday Recorder_, which he had flung upon the floor.

  That someone who is perennially ready to turn idle hands to account,was watching over this idle youth on that November afternoon, may, onthe whole, be taken for granted, for as Jack's blue eyes ran down thecolumns of the paper, a sudden mischievous light sprang into them, alow laugh broke from his lips.

  "By Jove!" he exclaimed. "What sport, what ripping sport. Why onearth didn't I think of it before? And--as I start for a four months'trip with Dundas on Saturday--I shan't have to pay the piper, so tospeak, yet awhile. In fact, by the time I come back, good old Rupertmay have forgotten the little practical joke." Whilst he soliloquized,he was making his way towards the writing-table, where, having seatedhimself, he drew towards him a blank sheet of paper--and began to writea letter, glancing frequently at the _Sunday Recorder_ beside him. Anexpansive grin lightened his features as he wrote, and at intervals hechuckled softly to himself, murmuring under his breath:

  "Poor old Rupert. If only I could be there when he gets the answers.But one can't have everything," he went on philosophically, whilstaddressing an envelope to the Editor of the _Sunday Recorder_; "it willbe pure joy to think of the dear soul's dismay, horror, and disgust.''Tis a mad world, my masters'--and, oh! to see our Rupert's face whenthe letters pour in. For they _will_ pour in." During this rapidsoliloquy, he was writing a second letter, which gave him less trouble,and needed less thought, than the first. Indeed, it ran very briefly:

  "DEAR SIR,--I am desired to ask if you will be good enough to forwardall letters in response to the enclosed advertisement to R.M., c/o yournewspaper, to 200, Termyn Street, S.W.--Yours faithfully,

  "J. LAYTON."

  With a final chuckle, the young man put both letters into an envelope,and having stamped it, went whistling from the house, and through thepark to the village, to post the missive himself at the little villagepost office.

  "Quiet and cultivated gentleman of good family and means, is anxious tomeet a young lady of good birth who needs a home, etc., etc., etc.," hemurmured as he walked slowly back to the Castle through the drippingNovember mist. "Oh! what sport--what utterly ripping sport!"