The Blood-Red Cross

The Blood-Red Cross
By L.T. Meade And Robert Eustace.

From The Strand magazine, November 1902.

In the month of November in the year 1899 I found myself a guest in
the house of one of my oldest friends--George Rowland. His beautiful
place in Yorkshire was an ideal holiday resort. It went by the name of
Rowland's Folly, and had been built on the site of a former dwelling in
the reign of the first George. The house was now replete with every
modern luxury. It, however, very nearly cost its first owner, if not the
whole of his fortune, yet the most precious heirloom of the family. This
was a pearl necklace of almost fabulous value. It had been secured as
booty by a certain Geoffrey Rowland at the time of the Battle of
Agincourt, had originally been the property of one of the Dukes of
Genoa, and had even for a short time been in the keeping of the Pope.
From the moment that Geoffrey Rowland took possession of the
necklace there had been several attempts made to deprive him of it.
Sword, fire, water, poison, had all been used, but ineffectually. The
necklace with its eighty pearls, smooth, symmetrical, pear-shaped, of a
translucent white colour and with a subdued iridescent sheen, was still
in the possession of the family, and was likely to remain there, as
George Rowland told me, until the end of time. Each bride wore the
necklace on her wedding-day, after which it was put into the
strong-room and, as a rule, never seen again until the next bridal
occasion. The pearls were roughly estimated as worth from two to three
thousand pounds each, but the historical value of the necklace put the
price almost beyond the dreams of avarice.
It was reported that in the autumn of that same year an American
millionaire had offered to buy it from the family at their own price, but

as no terms would be listened to the negotiations fell through.
George Rowland belonged to the oldest and proudest family in the
West Riding, and no man looked a better gentleman or more fit to
uphold ancient dignities than he. He was proud to boast that from the
earliest days no stain of dishonour had touched his house, that the
women of the family were as good as the men, their blood pure, their
morals irreproachable, their ideas lofty.
I went to Rowland's Folly in November, and found a pleasant,
hospitable, and cheerful hostess in Lady Kennedy, Rowland's only
sister. Antonia Ripley was, however, the centre of all interest. Rowland
was engaged to Antonia, and the history was romantic. Lady Kennedy
told me all about it.
"She is a penniless girl without family," remarked the good woman,
somewhat snappishly. "I can't imagine what George was thinking of."
"How did your brother meet her?" I asked.
"We were both in Italy last autumn; we were staying in Naples, at the
Vesuve. An English lady was staying there of the name of Studley. She
died while we were at the hotel. She had under her charge a young girl,
the same Antonia who is now engaged to my brother. Before her death
she begged of us to befriend her, saying that the child was without
money and without friends. All Mrs. Studley's money died with her.
We promised, not being able to do otherwise. George fell in love
almost at first sight. Little Antonia was provided for by becoming
engaged to my brother. I have nothing to say against the girl, but I
dislike this sort of match very much. Besides, she is more foreign than
English."
"Cannot Miss Ripley tell you anything about her history?"
"Nothing, except that Mrs. Studley adopted her when she was a tiny
child. She says, also, that she has a dim recollection of a large building
crowded with people, and a man who stretched out his arms to her and
was taken forcibly away. That is all. She is quite a nice child, and

amiable, with touching ways and a pathetic face; but no one knows
what her ancestry was. Ah, there you are, Antonia! What is the matter
now?"
The girl tripped across the room. She was like a young fawn; of a
smooth, olive complexion--dark of eye and mysteriously beautiful, with
the graceful step which is seldom granted to an English girl.
"My lace dress has come," she said. "Markham is unpacking it--but the
bodice is made with a low neck."
Lady Kennedy frowned.
"You are too absurd, Antonia," she said. "Why won't you dress like
other girls? I assure you that peculiarity of yours of always wearing
your dress high in the evening annoys George."
"Does it?" she answered, and she stepped back and put her hand to her
neck just