The Blue Diamond

by Annie Haynes

  Minnie’s pretty pink colour deepened a little as she caught sight of the tall figure in corduroy shooting-coat and knickerbockers coming round the corner of the path; and as the new-comer stepped a little aside to allow them to pass she glanced up into his moody face wistfully.

  “Good evening, Tom!” she said, with a little hesitation and a half movement as if to hold out her hand.

  But the man’s face did not relax; he affected not to see her pause.

  “Good evening, Minnie!” he said stiffly as he went by.

  Minnie glanced round after him with an uneasy look upon her pretty face.

  Three months ago all Lockford had looked upon Tom Greyson and Minnie Spencer as lovers. They had been the best of friends from their childish days, when their fathers had lived side by side in the row of cottages standing on the bank of the little stream that ran through the village; and when in due time Tom was second gamekeeper at the Manor, and Minnie became Miss Mavis Hargreave’s own maid, it seemed only natural that they should walk out together on Sunday evenings, and that Tom should fondly dream of a day when he should bring his old playfellow to the little cottage in the Home Wood which he found at present so lonely. But with the advent of Jim Gregory as under-gardener at the Manor everything was changed—from the moment when the glance of Gregory’s dark eyes had lighted upon pretty Minnie Spencer sitting demurely with the head servants in the house-keeper’s pew at church the very first Sunday he came to Lockford he had attached himself to her, and very soon poor Tom Greyson was rudely awakened from his blissful dreams of the sweet young wife who was coming to share his little home.

  From the first Jim Gregory had fascinated Miss Hargreave’s susceptible little maid with his tales of life under other conditions and the fact that he was a “foreigner,”-—i.e. not Devonshire born and bred—while it caused the other inhabitants of Lockford to look at him askance, apparently only increased his fascination for her.

  Gregory laughed openly now as he opened the wicket leading into the Park, and saw the stalwart form of his discarded rival striding away through the wood.

  “Tom Greyson looks pretty bad, eh, Minnie?” he observed teasingly.

  Minnie was not to be drawn. She took no notice of his remark; her rosy mouth was pursed up ominously.

  “You must walk quicker than this, Jim, or I shall be too late to dress Miss Mavis.”

  Gregory’s long strides soon caught her up.

  “What is Miss Hargreave going to wear—the diamonds, the ‘Luck of the Hargreaves’?”

  “The ‘Luck of the Hargreaves’!” Minnie echoed contemptuously. “That shows how much you know about such things, Jim. Miss Mavis will never wear the ‘Luck’—nor her ladyship either. It is kept for Sir Arthur’s wife.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know!” Gregory said humbly. “I thought as it was such a grand occasion, the first time Miss Mavis has been to the Court since she was engaged to Mr. Davenant, maybe she would wear them—that Sir Arthur would lend them to her, like.”

  Minnie shook her head decidedly.

  “They will never be worn until Sir Arthur’s bride wears them on her wedding-day. Miss Mavis was telling me the other day that they say the heir’s bride must wear the great Blue Diamond then if it is to bring them good luck.”

  “Luck! Luck!” Gregory repeated impatiently. “What people you Devonshire folk are for talking about luck, to be sure! I should say it was luck enough to have those diamonds to wear at all. Why, how many thousands of pounds are they worth?”

  “Oh, I don’t know! Ever so many,” Minnie replied at random.” I have heard Granny say, when they sent them to the London Exhibition in 1854, that they had a special case with iron bars outside for them and a policeman to watch them night and day!”

  “My word! And have you ever seen them, Minnie?”

  “Once,” Minnie replied, pleased at the effect her words were producing. “When I was a little child, and Sir Noel was High Sheriff, he gave a big ball to the county and Mother and I came up to see her ladyship, Miss Dorothy’s mother, dressed. She had the diamonds on them. They looked like—like a string of fire!” concluded Minnie, somewhat at a loss for a suitable simile.

  “My!” said Jim in an awestruck tone. “Where do they keep them, Minnie, and the gold plate? Mr. Briggs was telling me about that the other night. It must be a rare sight.”

  “They are all safe in the strong-room,” replied Minnie importantly. “And I have heard that even Mr. Jenkins can’t get at them, nor anybody—only Sir Arthur himself. Miss Dorothy is more likely to wear the diamonds than Miss Mavis, I’m thinking,” she concluded with a little laugh.

  Jim glanced at her curiously.

  “What! You think Sir Arthur—”

  “Hush! Hush! Somebody might hear us,” the girl said apprehensively as they entered the dark belt of shrubbery which immediately surrounded the Manor. “I really must make haste now, Jim.”

  “You will be in time enough,” the man said, detaining her. “Miss Mavis was sitting with Mr. Davenant when we came out. I’ll warrant she won’t be thinking about the time. What is the story about Mr. Davenant’s brother, Minnie? I have heard there is queer talk about him, that he daren’t come back to the country.”

  “It is years since it happened,” Minnie said slowly, “and I don’t rightly understand it. But I believe he had a quarrel with somebody over cards, and it ended in Mr. Walter Davenant shooting the other. They say he would have to stand his trial for murder if he came home. Folk said her ladyship wouldn’t think Mr. Garth good enough for Miss Mavis because he was only the younger son, but if Mr. Walter can’t come back Mr. Garth is as good as the eldest, I say.”

  “Just as good,” Mr. Gregory acquiesced. “And they seem to be very fond of one another—he and Miss Mavis—though he is so much older. But I haven’t heard half I wanted, Minnie; you’ll be at the same place as last night about nine o’clock?”

  The girl hesitated.

  “Oh, I don’t think I dare.”

  “There will be no one at home to-night,” urged Jim. “And I must see you again. Say you will come, Minnie?” coaxingly.

  “Well, if I can,” Minnie conceded. “Oh, Jim, there is Sir Arthur—he wants you!”

  She tore herself away and ran down the path leading to the back of the house.

  Jim touched his hat as he went towards the tall, fair young man who beckoned to him.

  “Yes, Sir Arthur.”

  “I have been round to the houses just now,” Sir Arthur said with a frown, “and I scarcely think there is enough ventilation in the first. I shall send for Slater in the morning. And the renanthera want sponging; the sphagnum was quite dry. You must be more careful, my man, or—”

  Jim touched his hat again.

  “I will go at once, Sir Arthur,” he said.

  Sir Arthur turned back to the Manor with a nod. His orchid-houses were his latest hobby—a very expensive one, as he was finding—and his frown deepened as he recalled the cost of some of his failures.

  Hargreave Manor was a low, rambling house, built for the most part of grey stone; the centre and main portion were generally ascribed to the early Stuart or late Tudor period, though local tradition assigned it an even earlier date. Since that time successive Hargreaves had added a story there, a room here, until they had succeeded in producing a structure which, delightful as it was to its possessors, was the despair of archaeologists. To its architectural deficiencies, however, Time had been very kind, throwing over them a rich veil of jasmine and clematis, of ivy and Virginia creeper, until in mellow autumn the hoary walls were covered with a crimson glory. But to-day, in the cool spring twilight, the tender green leaves were unfolding themselves, the tiny clinging tendrils catching at the rough old stones.

  The front-door stood hospitably open; it was a fancy of Lady Laura Hargreave, who acted as chatelaine for her son, to make a sitting-room of the wide, low hall, and in winter tea was always served there, by the big open hearth.

  Sir Arthur’s fa
ce brightened as he stepped in and saw a tall, slight girl playing with two great wolf-hounds which were leaping up and caressing her boisterously.

  “Why, Dorothy!” he began, as he crossed quickly to her. “This is an unexpected pleasure. How did you get here? Down, Hero! Down, Lion!”

  “The dears! They knew me directly,” Dorothy Hargreave said with a laugh. “And they were so pleased to see me, weren’t you, Hero?” laying her soft cheek against the dog’s velvet skin. “You did not ask me how I got here first thing, did you, Lion?”

  Sir Arthur looked amused.

  “If a certain young lady arrives a week sooner than she promises isn’t it likely that her affectionate cousin will inquire how she managed to surmount the two miles from the station?” he demanded jestingly. “You haven’t shaken hands with me yet, Dorothy!”

  “Oh, haven’t I?” his cousin said carelessly, though her colour deepened perceptibly, and her soft brown eyes drooped as she laid her hand in his.

  Dorothy Hargreave was the orphan daughter of Sir Arthur’s uncle and predecessor, the Sir Noel who had been High Sheriff in his year. Though she was the child of the elder brother she was several years the baronet’s junior, and her spirit and vivacity, with her lonely position, had combined to make her since her mother’s death the pet and plaything of her cousins. Sir Arthur had with the title inherited the entailed estates, but Dorothy’s father had naturally left his daughter everything that was in his power; and as a consequence his successor had found himself considerably crippled as regards money affairs. His long minority however—for the unwritten family law of the Hargreaves enforced by Sir Noel delayed the coming of age of the heir until he was five-and-twenty—gave the estates time to recover themselves. The Lockford gossips, moreover, had long since made up their minds that matters would eventually be straightened out in the old time-honoured fashion—the heiress would marry her cousin, Sir Arthur, and title and money would come together again.

  The cousins were excellent friends, though of late Dorothy’s gaiety had given way to a curious embarrassment when Sir Arthur was in the room. Hargreave himself had known ever since his accession to the title that it had been his uncle’s great wish that he should marry Dorothy, and he had always held himself, to a certain extent, bound by it; but so far he had shown no disposition in any way to place the affair on a different footing. Dorothy was very young, he told himself; it was only fair that she should see more of the world before she pledged herself, and he was by no means anxious to resign his bachelor liberty. But to-night his eyes softened as he watched the girl, as she stood alternately caressing and teasing the two hounds.

  “I am very glad to see you too, Dorothy,” he said softly.

  “Are you?” Dorothy’s ready tongue for once seemed to have deserted her. “I am afraid I have upset Aunt Laura’s plans a little by my unexpected appearance, though,” she went on, with an effort, “but Mrs. Danver’s infant developed measles, and we all had to leave at a moment’s notice. I really had no choice but to take you by storm. Besides, I wanted to congratulate Mr. Davenant.”

  Hargreave smiled at her.

  “And incidentally Mavis?”

  “I must wait and see what he is like in his new character first.’’

  “Were you surprised to hear the news?”

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  “They always seemed to be quarrelling.”

  “A sure sign, I am told,” Hargreave said quietly.

  “A sign of what?” wilfully.

  “Of love. Come and sit down, Dorothy. I want to hear what you have been doing.”

  He drew forward one of the big oak chairs.

  “The Manor will be dull without Mavis. We shall have to persuade you to stay with us, Dorothy.”

  The girl made no reply; her face was turned away. Hargreave could not guess at the sudden shy consciousness that was sending the blood in one glad tumultuous wave over cheeks and temples and forehead right up to the roots of her curly brown hair.

  He leaned forward.

  “Well, will you, Dorothy?” he said.

  “I dare say you will soon be tired of me,” the girl said in a muffled tone.

  “I don’t think so,” her cousin said meaningly. “Will you let us try, Dorothy?”

  “I don’t know—perhaps—”

  Before the girl had time for more the sound of footsteps on the wide oaken staircase made them both start.

  “Why, Arthur, Dorothy, what are you dreaming of? You will certainly never be ready in time to start. Be off, both of you!”

  And Lady Laura Hargreave, drawing on her gloves, came slowly across the hall to them, little guessing how inopportune her entrance was, or how she was thereby retarding the fulfilment of her favourite scheme.

  Chapter Two

  “YOU WILL come over early to-morrow, Garth?” Garth Davenant wrapped Mavis’s cloak more closely round her.

  “At the very earliest moment that I can get away. My father wants me to go over McDonnell’s estimates for the drainage first thing, but that will not take me long. Will you come and meet me, Mavis?”

  “Where?” Mavis Hargreave glanced up shyly into the dark rugged face, with its look of latent strength and power and the grey eyes fixed on hers so lovingly.

  Her love for Garth Davenant had become so entirely a part of her being that, though she had in no degree realized its strength until his words and caresses had called it into active life, the very intensity of her happiness now almost frightened her. She told herself that it was too full, too complete, something would surely happen to mar it; and to-night her vague fears shadowed her big brown eyes and gave a touch of pathos to the curves of her mobile mouth.

  Garth Davenant thought that never had she looked fairer, more altogether desirable in his eyes, than now, when under pretence of arranging her wraps, he detained her for a few last words in the corridor.

  “I fancy you don’t look quite happy to-night, dearest,” he went on, “and I feel as if in some way it must be our fault. You mustn’t let the trouble that lies over this unhappy house shadow your life too, Mavis.”

  The girl’s lips quivered a little as she glanced up at him.

  “It is so dreadful for poor Lady Davenant, Garth! She looks so sad, always. I am so sorry for you all!” with a touch light as a feather upon his arm.

  Garth stooped and put his lips upon the ungloved fingers.

  The shadow that lay over Davenant Court sometimes seemed to him almost too heavy to be borne, since the dread was a never-ending one. Poor Walter Davenant had been but a boy when the tragedy occurred that wrecked his life. He had become involved with some card swindlers and discovered that his great friend, a man whom he trusted implicitly, was deceiving him. In his anger he accused him openly of unfair dealing, and in the hubbub that followed the man was shot, and Walter Davenant fled from the country with the mark of Cain on his brow.

  One of the saddest things about the whole affair was the fact that if he had remained and stood his trial the verdict would almost certainly have been one of acquittal, or at the most the sentence would have been merely a nominal one, since there was no doubt as to St. Leger’s guilt, and his reputation was thoroughly bad. Young Davenant’s flight put a different complexion on the matter; a warrant was issued for his arrest, and if he should be brought to trial, after the lapse of years, things might go hard with him.

  Small wonder was it that Garth spoke of the trouble overhanging them, or that Sir John Davenant should look years older than his actual age, while a terrible dread haunted his wife’s eyes.

  Entertaining at Davenant Court had been for years a thing of the past, and this dinner party in honour of their son’s engagement had been somewhat of a strain on both Sir John and Lady Davenant.

  Garth feared that the effort had been apparent to Mavis, and his thoughts grew very tender.

  “Under the big beech by the park gates at eleven to-morrow,” he whispered. “Will you be there, darling? I will bring those poems you
wanted to hear, and try to coax the smiles back somehow.”

  “Then you will read to me? Yes, I will come.”

  Garth lowered his tall head a little nearer.

  “You will have a smile ready for me, Mavis? I cannot help fancying that there have been tears very near the surface to-night.”

  Mavis’s lips quivered, the clasp of her slender fingers upon his arm tightened.

  “Sometimes I am afraid we are too happy, Garth—that something will come and spoil everything.”

  Garth’s look was very tender as he gazed into the dewy eyes upraised timidly to his.

  “What a silly child it is!” he said fondly. “Nothing could spoil our happiness as long as we care for one another. Come, shake off your fears and give me one smile before we part!”

  Mavis did her best to obey him, but her lips were trembling when he placed her in the carriage with her mother.

  “Courage, Mavis!” he whispered, just touching her hand. “You will laugh at all those fears to-morrow. Are you getting in, Hargreave?”

  Dorothy drew her skirt aside. Arthur hesitated a moment, then the obvious anxiety in his mother’s glance decided him. He held out his cigar.

  “Thanks; I am going outside. It is a shame to miss a night like this. The moon makes it almost like day.”

  The three ladies in the carriage were unusually silent; each had her own special subject for thought. Lady Laura Hargreave, rejoicing in her daughter’s happiness, began also to think that another certain long-cherished desire of hers was about to be fulfilled. Mavis was absorbed in dreams of her lover, and Dorothy lay back in her corner, a pretty tremulous smile flickering round her lips as she thought of the cousin who had been her hero in her childish days.

  But as they turned in at the park gates Lady Laura drew herself up and listened.

  “I thought I heard a cry! Arthur, what is it?” as the carriage stopped and her son got down from the box.