Christina Read online

  CHAPTER XX.

  "SHE HAS A SWEET, STRONG SOUL."

  "There was never another man in my world but Max. There never couldhave been another. Some women are made that way. They can only givetheir best once."

  "But--I would take--the second best. I would be thankful even for thecrumbs from the rich man's table. Only let me have the right to takecare of you, to give you----"

  "To give me everything, and to receive nothing in return? No, Rupert,I could not let you do that, even if----"

  "Even if?" he repeated after her, his eyes fastened hungrily on herface, his voice deep and appealing. "Can't you understand that I don'twant to worry you for anything in return. I only want to be near you,to do all that man can do for you."

  "And I am grateful, more grateful than I can ever express in words.Sometimes I am sorry you ever chanced to meet me, on that oasis in thedesert. I think I have been a hindrance in your life, not the help Ishould like to have been. No--wait--don't contradict me for a minute,"and Margaret held up her hand with a smile, as the man on the low chairbeside her couch, bent forward in eager disclaimer. "Because of me,you have never married, when you ought to have had a wife, and a home,and children of your own."

  "Do you think I could look at another woman, after I had once seenyou?" he exclaimed vehemently, and she answered gently--

  "Some day, I hope you will have a woman in your life, a woman who willbring you all the happiness you have missed, who----"

  "I want no woman but you," he cried, a note of sullen passion in hisvoice. "Margaret--you say--he--was the only man in your world. Can'tI make you understand that you are--what you have been ever since Ifirst saw you--the only woman in mine?"

  She put out her hand to him, the transparent hand, whose only ornamentwas its heavy wedding ring, and he stooped down and kissed it, with acuriously reverent gesture that made her eyes misty.

  "You have been such a good friend," she said; "but believe me, therecannot ever be anything but friendship between us two and--there issuch a little time now left for anything."

  "What do you mean?" he asked, with a sudden catch in his breath, hiseyes fixed on her thin face, which seemed all at once to have become soethereal in its whiteness; "why do you speak as if----"

  "As if--an end were coming? Because--the end is very near." His eyesdid not leave her face, but a look of pain leapt into them, a look ofsuch intolerable pain, that Margaret exclaimed quickly--

  "I cannot bear to hurt you, but it is better to tell you just the plaintruth, even if it hurts you. The end is going to be very soon. Dr.Fergusson thinks it can't be far off now, and I am glad, Rupert. Idon't think I can tell you how glad."

  He made some inarticulate sound, dropping his head into his hands, andher soft voice went on, with soothing monotony--

  "There was a great deal of hardship and trouble in my early marriedlife, and I never managed to get over it all. I have been ill almostever since you knew me, and--in the last few months--I have come to theend of my tether. When Max--went away,"--her voice broke--"all thatwas left of my life and vitality seemed to go, too. I have tried tolive, and I wanted to live, but the disease has got the better of me,and--I am glad the end is in sight."

  "Did you send for me because"--he lifted his head and looked at her.

  "I sent for you because I wanted to make everything clear to you, andbecause I did not want to go right away for ever, without seeing myfriend again. And--I wanted to help you--about your own future, if Icould."

  "My own future," Rupert laughed drearily. "Do you think my own future,and anything about me, matters two straws, when you--when you"--hisvoice trailed away into silence. He sat very still, his face turnedtowards the window, through which the trees in the wood beyond thehouse, were already showing a veil of delicate green.

  "My friendship will have been a very poor thing if it spoils yourlife," Margaret said gently, her gaze following his to the April trees,and the dappled April sky.

  "A poor thing?" He turned back to her, a great light in his eyes. "Doyou think I regret loving you? Do you think I regret for a singlesecond, having known and loved you? When I first met you, I had thesort of contemptuous tolerance for women, which I had found in othermen. It was you who taught me what a good woman can be to a man. Evennow, I am not fit to touch the hem of your gown, but since I knew you,I have at least lived straight. I can look you in the face, and saythat my hands and heart are clean."

  "I am glad," she said simply, her deep eyes shining. "You don't knowhow glad I am, if I have helped you ever so little. And, some day--Iam speaking very plainly because I am a dying woman, and dying peoplecan speak the direct truth--some day I want you to give a woman yourheart; I want you to take her hands in your hands; I want you to findthe happiness, which, for my sake, you have missed in all these years."

  "Impossible," he said passionately. "You are asking too much. Howcould I ever think of another woman, when I have been your friend?"

  "Some day," she answered, her wonderful smile flashing over her face;"and--I am developing into a matchmaker, Rupert," she added lightly."I have even chosen the woman. You did not credit me with gifts as amatchmaker, did you?"

  "Don't talk of such things in such a way," he exclaimed almost roughly."How can you laugh and talk lightly, when----"

  "When I ought to be thinking only of 'graves and epitaphs'?" she quotedwhimsically. "No, don't look so hurt and sorry. Let me still bewhimsical, even if I am going to die. Leave me my sense of humour tothe end. And--let me match-make for you. It pleases me to pictureyou--happy--with--a wife I have chosen for you."

  "Don't," he said, actual anger in his voice, but once again her handtouched his hand, and the touch quieted him.

  "You must not be hurt or angry with me," she said. "I asked you tocome to see me, because I wanted to thank you for your loyal friendshipand a sort of instinct made me long to tell you--of someone--who someday I think will comfort you."

  "Comfort me?" he exclaimed bitterly.

  "Yes, comfort you," eyes and voice were very steady. "Rupert, youknow--of course you know--all about my little niece, my dear littleniece Christina? You know by what a strange coincidence I discoveredwho she was, and you know how Arthur found all the proofs of identity,and showed beyond the possibility of doubt, that she is the daughter ofmy own sister Helen? You know all that?"

  "Yes, I know all that. I have often seen Miss Moore; she is a verycharming girl, and I liked her for insisting on staying with Baba forthe present, so that Cicely should not be left stranded. It seemed toshow grit, and a fine character."

  "She has grit, and a fine character. She has more; she has a mostlovable character; and, Rupert, she would make a man who cared for her,a most tender and loving wife."

  "A man who cared for her," Rupert repeated with emphasis; "not a manwhose whole heart was given to another woman."

  "Some day--when the other woman--has gone--right away--remember what Isaid. That is all. It is not a thing to be discussed, even betweentwo friends. Only--remember that my little Christina is worthy to beloved. She has a sweet and a strong soul."

  More than once on that April afternoon, Rupert tried to take Margaret'sconversation back to his own deep love for her; but, just as herbrother Arthur had found, four months earlier, so he found now, thatsome dominating force in her personality kept him at bay--mastered him,in spite of himself. It was she who finally gave him a gentle word ofdismissal, so gentle, that he could not be hurt, even though theparting from her seemed to him to tear his heart in two.

  "I may come again?" he said, his speech sounding terse and abrupt,because of his very excess of feeling; and she smiled into his face, astrange smile, which he could not understand.

  "Yes," she answered; "you may--come again; and, Rupert, forgive me ifby being your friend I have only hurt you. I have done nothing foryou, excepting give you pain. I think----"--she paused, and her eyesturned to the soft sky behind the delicate April leaves--"I think Ih
ave done so little, so terribly little with my life."

  "But you have _been_ so much," he answered, his hand holding hersclosely, in a long warm clasp; "and it is what you are that matters,and that influences your fellow beings--what you are, so much more thanwhat you do. And what you are lives for ever," he added, in a burst ofinspiration very rare in the man, who so seldom gave expression to histhoughts. "There is no end to a good influence; it never dies; itcould not ever die. What you are has helped everyone who knows--andloves you."

  "But this is not good-bye," he said a moment later, before he left theroom. "You say I may come again; this is only _au revoir_."

  "_Au revoir_, then," she answered, that inexplicable smile breakingover her face again. "But," she whispered under her breath, as thedoor closed behind him, "it will be _au revoir_ in a land where therewill not be any more heart-breaks or good-byes--the land--that isnot--very far off--but--near--so very near."

  She had known the truth when she told Rupert he might come again,knowing that her days were actually numbered, that the end of which shehad told him, was very close at hand.

  And so it was, that when Rupert Mernside next journeyed down to thelonely house in the valley, where the touch of spring lay on woodlandand copse, where primroses lifted starry eyes under the hazels, andwind flowers swung in the April breeze, he came to follow Margaret tothe quiet churchyard on the hill-side.

  Christina had chosen the place where her grave should be--Christina,who had been with her at the end, who had seen the amazing radiance ofher face, when the end came. All night she had lain in a state ofprofound unconsciousness, from which they had not thought she wouldever rally. But as morning broke, as the sunlight shone in through theuncurtained window, Margaret's eyes opened, and that amazing radianceflashed into them, the smile on her face making the girl who watchedher, draw a swift breath of wonder. It was evident that the dyingwoman knew nothing of what passed in the room about her; her eyeslooked, not at surrounding objects, but at something beyond, and awayfrom them all--something that was coming towards her, or towards whichshe was going.

  "Max," she said, her voice grown suddenly strong. "Ah! Max--Iknew--you would wait for me. I--knew--you would be there," and withthat wonderful radiance in her eyes, that wonderful smile upon herface, she had passed out into the Rest, that lies about our restlessworld.

  "I think she would like to lie just here," Christina said, when,walking round the churchyard with Sir Arthur and Dr. Fergusson, theycame to a halt under a low wall, from which the ground sloped abruptlyaway, in a series of terraces. In that sunny corner, violets nestledagainst the grey stones, their fragrance drifting out upon the Aprilbreeze, and on the wall itself, a robin sat and sang, of spring-time,of resurrection, of life.

  "She would like this place," the girl repeated softly. "It is so stilland sunny, and the great view is so beautiful--like herself, sobeautiful and restful," she added under her breath, so that onlyFergusson heard the words.

  Sir Arthur, a more quiet and subdued Sir Arthur, looked across thesloping churchyard to the great sweep of country, whose horizon wasbounded by far blue hills, and perhaps some faint perception ofChristina's meaning filtered into his narrow soul, although he onlysaid:--

  "I wonder why she wished to be buried here. I should have thought shewould have liked to be near her husband."

  "I don't think she felt she was ever far away from him," Christinaanswered, carried out of herself for the moment, and forgetting herusual awe of her grim uncle. "She knew that wherever their bodiesmight be, she and he would be together. She knew they could not everbe really apart--he and she."

  Sir Arthur looked at her without replying. His silence was a strangetestimony to Margaret's power, for he was kept silent by theunaccustomed feeling (a feeling experienced for the first time in hisself-sufficient existence)--that in his sister, and in the new niecewho looked at him with such certainty in her eyes, he had come face toface with forces of which he was ignorant. Perhaps he could not, orwould not, have put this feeling into words, nevertheless, it wasthere, far down in his heart, a new factor to be reckoned with, if everhe chose to reckon with it. The day of Margaret's funeral was one ofthose perfect spring days, which come to us sometimes as a foretaste ofsummer. Beyond the little churchyard, the wide expanse of moorland layflooded with sunshine, spikes of young bracken showing vividly greenamongst the brown of the heather, clumps of gorse shining golden in thesunlight, a soft mist of green upon the hazel copses at the moorland'sfoot. Larks sprang singing to the April sky, and upon the stone wallclose against the open grave, a robin sat once more, and sang his song,of resurrection, of life, of love.

  The group that gathered in that sunny corner, fragrant with thesweetness of violets, was a very small one. Sir Arthur and Christina,Rupert Mernside, Lady Cicely, Dr. Fergusson, and Elizabeth--these werethe six mourners who followed Margaret to her last resting-place, andas Christina's eyes wandered round the little group, she felt that sheknew upon which of the six the beautiful woman's death had fallen asthe most heavy blow.

  Her heart contracted when her fleeting glance rested for a second onRupert's stricken face; and she glanced away again quickly, feelingthat to look into his face, meant also to look into his stricken soul,and that she had no right to read so much of the inmost being ofanother human creature. Cicely had insisted upon coming to Graystonefor the funeral.

  "Although I never knew your sister," she said to Sir Arthur, "I want todo this one small thing, to show how much I reverenced her. Christinahas told me of her, and I know how beautiful she was, body and soul."

  Thus it came about that Cicely sat next to Denis Fergusson in the tinyvillage church, where the first part of the funeral service was said,stood next to Fergusson beside the grave by the sunny wall, and, whenall was over, moved away down the steep churchyard path, by Fergusson'sside.

  He looked down at her tiny form with a delicious sense of having aright at least, in this moment, to protect and watch over her, and, asthey went out of the lych-gate, she turned to him with a grateful lookin her eyes.

  "Thank you for taking care of me," she said, with that prettyimpulsiveness that constituted one of her greatest charms. "I am gladI came to-day--even though--it has made me remember----" she hesitated,and Fergusson saw that her eyes swam with tears.

  They were walking slowly along the upland road, in the wake of the restof the party, and Fergusson slackened his pace a little, to give hertime to recover her composure, whilst he said gently:--

  "I understand. I quite understand."

  "I think you are a very understanding person," she answered, the falterin her voice making his heart contract with an almost unbearablelonging to comfort her. "I--have not heard--that service we have justheard, since it was said--over--John--my husband. It has made meremember--that day--and all it meant to me."

  Fergusson looked away from her sweet face, aquiver with emotion, outacross the wide moorland, where the larks sang in the sunshine, to thefar line of blue hills, then he said slowly--

  "The words hold wonderful comfort. The triumphant sense of a sure andcertain hope, always seems to me to be the keynote of the whole."

  "Those were the words that stayed in my mind, penetrating througheverything else," she said softly, "and though--John had gone away intowhat seemed unbreakable silence, I knew--that--he had not really gone.I had the sure and certain hope--oh! and more than hope--that hewas--very safe, and very near me all the time."

  The naive expression, the simplicity of the words, spoken from thedepths of a simple and sincere heart, flooded Fergusson's heart againwith a sense of reverent love, that almost amounted to adoration; butno opportunity to answer her was given him, for Sir Arthur turned backto join Cicely, and a few minutes' further walk brought them to the innat Graystone, where they were to lunch, before their drive to therailway station. Rupert parted from the rest at the door of the inn.Perhaps Christina was the only member of the party, who realised thathe had come to the end of his tether
, that an imperative necessity forsolitude was upon him, that his power of endurance was nearly at anend. She was standing behind Sir Arthur, when Rupert bade them allgood-bye; it was with her that he shook hands last of all, and as shelooked up into his face, her eyes held some strange comfort for him.He did not put it into words; he could not have explained even tohimself, had he tried to do so, why it was that the glance of thosesweet eyes sent a little restful feeling into his troubled heart; butas he went away, some of the tension of misery seemed to relax, thenumbness of his pain grew less; in some dim way his hurt had beensalved.

  "Your cousin seems to have been a most devoted friend to my poorsister," Sir Arthur said, after lunch, when he and the two ladies andFergusson were seated in the small sitting-room of the inn awaitingtheir carriage. "I cannot conceive why, in the world she could nothave married a man like that, instead of the poor miserable fellow whomade her life and his own, a burden to them both."

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

  "Oh! she loved him--she loved him far too much," Sir Arthur answeredtestily. "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 istotally unworthy of her."

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

  "I don't believe a man can ever really understand the way a womanloves. A woman's love is made up of so many ingredients, she herselfcan hardly analyse it, and no man could ever begin to get near its trueanalysis."

  Sir Arthur looked at her with the kindly smile of one who listens tothe prattling of a child, then resumed his own train of thought andwords, 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 favourablyimpressed on that occasion; but I can honestly say that until I heardhe was in his grave, I had no really quiet moments."

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

  "He was a Russian by birth--no, don't go, there need be no secret aboutthe matter, certainly not from you, who were so good to my poorsister," Sir Arthur said, as Fergusson showed signs of leaving theroom. "Max Petrovitch was his real name, and my sister originally methim at the house of friends in town. He was then closely connectedwith the Young Russia movement--or rather, to call things by their truenames, 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 counthe 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 firmlybelieve--that he never had a hand in any scheme of assassination,still, he was tarred with the pitch-black brush of anarchy. There isno doubt that the time in Siberia sowed the seeds of Margaret'sill-health; it sapped her strength and vitality; it was--the beginningof 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 knewnothing of his whereabouts; but she herself, by his wish, left Siberia,and went to Paris, and there--after what vicissitudes God onlyknows--he joined her, for a time. But--here the inherent weakness ofthe man appeared. God forbid that I should be unfair to the dead--but,he was a coward; and because he was afraid, because he was afraid ofbeing recaptured, and sent back to Siberia, he gave up the party towhich he belonged--he sold himself to the Secret Police. And from themoment that was known, he must have led a life of horror. Hisfootsteps were dogged; he was tracked down from place to place; he wasa doomed man, and he knew it. Certainly he was guarded to an extent bythe Secret Police, but, those who wanted his life cared very little forthat. I believe he wandered over Europe, seeking a place of safety invain, and at last--ill, worn-out, and despairing--he came to England,to die in that lonely house in the valley, where Margaret has alsodied. Her illness sent her back to her own land; she could not travelabout with him, but when they got him there, they sent for her, and shewas with him to the last."

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

  "She loved him with a most amazing love," Fergusson put in, speakingfor the first time. "I was there during his last illness, and at hisdeath; and, as I said before, I say it again: 'God grant to every manwhen death comes, to have such a woman, and such a woman's love, withhim at the last!'"

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