"It was cowardly of me to run away," the girl exclaimed, clasping her hands together with a curiously childish gesture; "but—I felt so alone—so frightened—and I had no proof that what I said was true. I have no proofs now. I can't even make it clear to you, that I am not telling a pack of lies."
"Can't you?" Margaret smiled. "I don't think I want proofs of your truthfulness; you carry truth in your face. All the same, for your own sake, and for the sake of justice, I am sorry you can produce no proofs of your statement."
"I can't do anything but give my word," the girl said despairingly. "Mother gave me the jewel just before she died. It was a great treasure of hers; she valued it immensely. I think she meant to tell me something more when she gave it me, only—the sentence she began was never finished. The two last words she spoke, the very last, were, 'Tell Arthur'—and then—she died."
"Tell—Arthur?" The same startled look which the mention of that name had before brought into Margaret's eyes, flashed into them again. "Who was—Arthur?"
"I—don't know. I never knew anything about my mother's people. I do not even know her maiden name. And that sounds so improbable, that it made my story about the jewel seem more than ever ridiculous, when I told it at Bramwell Castle."
"What a strange complication," Margaret's dark eyes fixed themselves thoughtfully on Christina's face. "I wonder why your mother kept you in ignorance of her maiden name, and of her family? Have you any idea what made her so reticent?
"No; until lately it never struck me how odd and unusual it is that I should not know these things. I never mixed with other girls. We lived a very isolated life, my father and mother and I, and I accepted everything in it without question. But now I realise that it was not ordinary and normal. And I often wonder about it. But—I shall never know what it all meant. They are dead—my father and mother, and the clergyman who knew us in Devonshire is dead; and, as I told you, the solicitor went to Africa; and I don't know where he is."
"But these people with whom you lived—the Donaldsons. Surely they must know something of your history?"
"Oh! no, they would know nothing. I only knew Mrs. Donaldson at all, because she was staying in the village near our home, and mother was kind to her children, when they were ill. She was in no way an intimate friend of ours. And the people—the very few people we knew in the village, were only acquaintances. There is nobody in the whole world who could vouch for my innocence."
"It is a curious predicament. We can only ask Dr. Fergusson's advice, and act upon it. I wish I could understand why there is something so oddly familiar about your face and voice." Her own low voice was puzzled. "I believe I have asked you this before; but are you sure, quite sure, we never met until you saw me here?"