The Blue Diamond

by Annie Haynes

  Garth came across and took her hands in his.

  “How are you this morning, sweetheart? I am glad to see the roses are coming back a little to these pale cheeks.”

  “How is it that you are at the Court again?” Mavis questioned. “I thought you were in London.”

  “I had to come down this morning,” Garth said gravely, “to bring my father and mother some news.”

  “News!” Mavis repeated wistfully. “Not—not bad news, I hope, Garth?”

  He put his arm round her reassuringly.

  “It is sad news, dearest; but I really think and hope that for him as well as for my poor mother and father it is the best news we could hope to hear. My brother Walter is dead.”

  “Dead!” Mavis echoed, her eyes filling with tears. “Oh, Garth, your poor mother, poor Lady Davenant!”

  “It has been a terrible blow for her,” Garth assented. “But I think in time she will come to see that it is for the best. It will at least mean to her the cessation of the ever-haunting anxiety which has been gradually wearing her health and strength away. While to poor Walter—Mavis, have you ever thought what a life his must have been, tortured by an abiding remorse, as I know he was, haunted by the constant fear of capture and the felon’s dock? Better, far better, had it been for him had he boldly stood his ground at the time and taken his punishment, whatever it might have been. Ah, Mavis, you never saw him, but when I remember the big brother of whom I used to be so proud when I was a boy, and then think of last night, the contrast seems too dreadful!”

  Mavis softly laid her hand on his in silent sympathy, and presently he went on:

  “I was able to be with him at the last—it did not matter then. Before he was always afraid that my movements were watched. But he sent for me.”

  Mavis looked bewildered.

  “Was he in England then? I thought—I fancied that he never came back, that he was safer abroad?”

  “He died in a mean little lodging in one of the dingy streets at the back of the Strand,” Garth said. “For years Walter had been in the habit of paying periodical visits to England, visits which used to keep us in a constant state of anxiety, and since illness overtook him—an illness I verily believe brought on by the constant state of ferment and unrest in which he lived—the yearning for his own country seemed to grow stronger, his visits became longer and more frequent, and our anxiety consequently increased.”

  “Poor, poor fellow!” Mavis whispered as she wiped away her gathering tears. “And poor Garth!” with a swift glance at the man’s half-averted face.

  “Yes, it has not been a pleasant thing to have hanging over one! I wonder now whether you guess why I met Nurse Marston in Exeter, Mavis?”

  The girl looked at him in surprise.

  “You do not mean—?”

  “Walter had come over,” Garth proceeded. “He was staying in Exeter in a poor quarter of the town, and he was taken ill; it was impossible to procure proper nursing and attention for him there without attracting suspicion, and I hit upon the idea of asking Nurse Marston to come over and see what really was the matter with him and if she could do anything. Once before she had nursed him in London, and several times when my mother had seen him he was in hiding at the Marston’s cottage. Mrs. Marston nursed him, you know, and both she and Mary were devoted to him; but when Mary and I got to his lodging we found that something had made him fear that he was being followed, and that, ill as he was, he had managed to get away. So Mary came back the same day, and was thus, unfortunately, at liberty when a nurse was wanted at the Manor.”

  He paused to note how Mavis received this information. She looked at him reproachfully.

  “You could let Nurse Marston know that your brother was in England, and yet you would not trust me, Garth! I think I—”

  “It was not my own secret, dearest,” Garth said slowly. “Such tremendous issues for all of us were involved that I dare not risk letting a single unnecessary person into the secret. One unguarded word might have aroused suspicion, and until Walter was safe out of England I dare not speak. Besides, even if I had been at liberty to tell you, Mavis, I should have hesitated to add another anxiety to those which were already weighing heavily upon you. Must I confess it”—a tender smile dawning in his eyes—“the thought that you would trust me, were taking my bare word, was very sweet to me. It was that thought that kept me silent. Mavis, you will not turn against me now?”

  There was a moment’s pause; Mavis bravely struggled against the feeling that Garth ought to have confided in her and overcame it. She looked up in his face with a smile.

  “You were quite right, Garth.”

  Garth’s arms drew her to his breast, his lips were pressed passionately to hers.

  “My own darling who trusted me! There shall be no secrets between us in the future, please Heaven. Ah, Mavis, I wonder if you can guess how I am counting the days and hours until the glad time comes when we shall be together—alone—just you and I, Mavis!”

  “Perhaps I can,” Mavis whispered softly, drawing his dark head down to hers, “because—perhaps I shall be glad too, Garth!”

  Overdeen Priory was looking its best as the rays of the setting sun fell athwart its glories of Virginia creeper and canariensis, turning them to vivid gold and glowing scarlet; the old grey walls and the mullioned windows peeping out from the wealth of blossom and vegetation gave the requisite touch of softness and shadow. Out on the lawn, beneath one of the wide-spreading cedars, a dainty tea-equipage was set on a wicker-table, while several inviting-looking basket-chairs were standing round. By the tea-table two ladies were sitting, their soft white dresses forming an extremely cool and pleasant contrast with the green sward around.

  Very peaceful and homelike the scene looked, Garth Davenant thought as he came out of the library with his small, white-coated son on his shoulder and crossed the pleasant lawn to his wife and her cousin.

  “It is impossible to do any work with this fellow, Mavis,” he called out. “I meant to look over that brief of Fletcher-Heatons, but not a line have I read. Master Noel was passing and nothing would serve but that he must come in.”

  “I think Noel is getting spoilt,” said Mavis. She held out her arms; the baby chuckled with delight as his father tossed him to and fro and his mother tried to catch him.

  Two years of marriage had altered Mavis but little; her figure had grown rather more matronly, her face was a trifle paler, her expression had gained in sweetness and strength; otherwise she was just the same simple, gentle-natured girl whom Garth Davenant had wooed and won in those spring days at Lockford.

  Far more change was there apparent in her cousin Dorothy, though for the moment she was smiling at little Noel in almost her old light-hearted fashion. The feathery hair was still tossed lightly back and curled over the small head, but there was a look of settled sadness about the brown eyes, a misty, far-away expression as though Dorothy’s actual life was lived not in the present but the past—an expression that appeared to be curiously in contrast with the small, purposeful mouth.

  “The picture of Mavis, isn’t he?” Garth said as, after giving him a final toss in the air, he deposited him in his mother’s arms and turned to Dorothy.

  “He is very like her,” she agreed. “But sometimes he reminds me—there is such a look of Arthur.”

  Some of the gaiety died out of Garth’s face.

  “I know; I have often seen it,” he assented, looking absently at the fair-haired baby while his thoughts went back to the young man who for the past two years and a half had been a wanderer on the face of the earth.

  For, in spite of his mother’s and sister’s entreaties, Arthur had steadily refused to come home. Lady Laura heard from him irregularly, sometimes two or three times close together, hurried scrawls little more than accounts of dangers passed, and making a few inquiries about those at home. Then would come long intervals of silence, periods of waiting that wrung the hearts of the women-folk who loved him and prayed daily for
his return.

  Of that past tragedy at Lockford Manor there remained but little trace, save in Lady Laura’s whitening locks and in the absence from Hargreave of its master.

  Up in the churchyard on the hill Mrs. Marston slept by the side of the daughter for whom she had mourned so passionately, and the stone above them testified to the respect and esteem of the Davenants for their faithful friends and servants.

  Sometimes when Mavis was staying at the Manor she would steal up in the dusk of the evening to the old churchyard, and, standing beside the white marble cross which bore but the one word “Hilda,” would drop a tear as she remembered the wayward loveliness of the woman who had assuredly, if she had sinned deeply, loved much, and had suffered much.

  Dorothy was often with Lady Laura; it seemed as if Mavis, in going to Overdeen, had left her place for her cousin. But of late a new element had crept into Dorothy’s life—an old governess of hers, having inherited a large fortune when it was too late for her to make a personal use of it, had devoted it and herself to the founding of a large crèche. There most of her time was spent, and there Dorothy had visited, with the result that of late the love of the little children had crept into Dorothy’s heart, and, to the dismay of Lady Laura, she had definitely announced her intention of spending at least half of the year at the Home.

  With all her sweetness Dorothy could be obstinate when she chose, and her aunt’s remonstrances had not moved her from the position she had taken up. She was willing to spend part of her time at the Manor, but she frequently declared that her real home, her interest, would be in the crèche.

  It was very seldom that she mentioned the cousin who had once meant so much in her life. Incessantly as the name was on Lady Laura’s lips, it rarely left Dorothy’s, and to-day was almost the first time since Arthur’s departure that Garth had heard that name from her.

  After a pause he went on, being now very glad that the long silence was broken:

  “Lady Laura has not heard from him lately, has she?”

  “Not for over three months,” Dorothy said dreamily. “He was in Afghanistan then, and spoke of perhaps making his way into Tibet. She is getting very anxious about him.”

  “He ought to come home,” Garth said gravely. “That there would be a certain amount of unpleasantness to be faced, I grant, but a man has no right to shirk his responsibilities in such a fashion.”

  He watched Mavis for a moment as she busied herself with the tea-things; then the sound of a car in the avenue caught his ear. He leaned forward.

  “It is your mother, I believe, Mavis.”

  “Mother!” Mavis repeated in some surprise. “Why, mother was going to the Lewises! I don’t think—”

  “I feel sure it is the car from the Manor,” Garth repeated. “Perhaps it is some message from Lady Laura.”

  Mavis turned.

  “No! It is mother! She has seen us—she is coming across to us. But who is with her?” She moved a few paces forward; then something familiar in the tall figure following Lady Laura struck her. She paused, and then she cried, “Garth, Dorothy, it is not—it cannot be— Arthur!”

  Garth sprang to his feet.

  “It is, though!” he cried excitedly.

  Lady Laura’s face was quivering all over with excitement, tears and smiles seemed equally near.

  “Do you see whom I have brought you, Mavis? Yes, he has come home at last.”

  “Why didn’t you let us know?” Garth inquired as Mavis ran to her brother. “We would have come over.”

  “I did not know myself,” Lady Laura explained, her eyes growing dim as she watched the brother and sister.” A letter he sent to tell me must have miscarried, so that I had not the least idea until he walked in. He had to hire a car to bring him up. However he is here, and that is the main thing.”

  “Quite!” Mavis assented as she drew back and surveyed her brother at arm’s length. “But here is a young man to whom you have not yet been introduced—your nephew—and Dorothy. You have not forgotten her?

  “No, I have not forgotten Dorothy,” Sir Arthur said as he held out his hand. “What is this I hear about you, Dorothy, that you want to join a sisterhood or something?”

  “Not exactly.” The girl laughed, though her eyes did not meet his. “But now that you have come home Aunt Laura will not mind and I shall be quite free.”

  “Are you perfectly certain that my mother’s consent was all that was wanting?” Sir Arthur asked as his attention was claimed by his small nephew.

  Lady Laura was easily persuaded to stay for dinner; her pride in her newly-recovered son was very evident.

  Mavis and Garth too vied with one another in showing their joy at having this dearly-loved brother with them again. Only Dorothy felt somewhat left out in the cold as the evening progressed. After his first greeting Arthur never spoke to her save when courtesy made it imperative. It even seemed to Dorothy that during dinner he avoided looking in her direction, and she rose from the table with the feeling that the old pleasant, cousinly relationship was broken for ever, and that there was nothing to replace it.

  “Now to-night you are to come up very soon—you are not to sit smoking for ever so long,” Mavis paused at the door to say to her husband. “We cannot spare Arthur—mother and I.”

  In the drawing-room Lady Laura and Mavis settled themselves in one of the big settees for a comfortable talk about Arthur, and his wanderings; Dorothy joined them for a few minutes, but presently, feeling out of everything and unsettled, she wandered absently through the open French window and walked slowly along into the scented twilight beyond.

  She strolled away up the grassy paths to the quaint little old-fashioned garden which Mavis called her own, and sat down beside the fountain. Somehow Arthur’s return had made her realize far more vividly than his absence had done how entirely outside his life she stood, and, despite her courage, tears gathered in her eyes as she felt a strange unaccustomed sense of loneliness.

  She hardly knew how long she had been there when she caught the sound of footsteps and saw a tiny speck of light advancing towards her. She sat still; surely whoever it was would not notice her, and would pass by, but her white gown made a patch of light across the dull grass, and the steps came straight towards her.

  “Dorothy!” Arthur’s voice said softly as he threw away his cigar. “Here you are! I was looking for you.”

  He stood gazing at her in admiration.

  “For me!” the girl echoed as she sprang to her feet. “Does Aunt Laura want me? I will go at once.” She moved forward.

  Arthur laid his hand on her arm.

  “My mother is quite happy talking to Mavis. I am not her messenger. No. I want you for myself, Dorothy. Can’t you stay and talk to me a little while?” as the girl seemed disposed to hurry away. “Aren’t you going to tell me that you are glad to see me back again?”

  “I am glad you have come back,” the girl murmured, twisting her hands together nervously. “But I must not stay out, Arthur. I have letters to write, and—”

  “Can’t they wait a few minutes?” Arthur inquired reproachfully. “You were sitting quietly enough just now when I came up, Dorothy; and I must tell you why I came home.”

  “Aunt Laura wanted you—we felt sure you would know that,” Dorothy said confusedly.

  Arthur still retained his hold on her arm, and almost before she had realized that they were turning away from the house he had guided her into a side path.

  “I don’t think my mother’s wishes had much to do with my return,” he went on. “I am ashamed to say that I had in no way realized how my continued absence was wounding her. My resolution was formed when I received a letter from her with certain news.” He paused and looked earnestly at her.

  Dorothy turned away her head.

  “You don’t ask me what the letter contained,” Arthur went on after a moment. “It told me that you were proposing to take up work in a home in East London. When I heard that it struck me that it was time to come
back if a hope daily growing stronger in my heart was ever to become a reality. So I am here, Dorothy, to say that I cannot spare you—to ask you to come to the Manor and take care of my mother and me. We want you, Dorothy, more than the crèche does. Will you come? That is the question I have journeyed six thousand miles to put to you. Will you at least give me one word of hope?”

  Dorothy drew her arm from his—her trembling was so excessive that he could not but notice it.

  “Oh, Arthur, you do not realize—you have not thought—”

  “Haven’t I?” he interrupted, a touch of passion in his voice. “What else do you imagine has been in my mind through the long days and nights that I have been away from you? I could not come before to you. I made a terrible mistake, Dorothy. Tell me that it is not too late to rectify it!”

  “You have forgotten,” Dorothy began slowly, almost beneath her breath.

  “May I tell you how I feel, Dorothy—that for a time I was deluded: I followed a chimera, but all the while I must have felt that the reality was here. Do not tell me that the awakening has come too late, child. Give me one word of hope that some day you may let me teach you also to forget the past, to give the present to me.”

  “You are sure?” Dorothy’s voice quivered with emotion. “Arthur, I—”

  Arthur ventured to catch her trembling hands in his.

  “Sure—certain, Dorothy! Will you—”

  His arm went round her, his fair head was bent over her beautiful brown hair.

  “I—I—think I am sure too,” the girl whispered.

  THE END

  About The Author

  Annie Haynes was born in 1865, the daughter of an ironmonger.

  By the first decade of the twentieth century she lived in London and moved in literary and early feminist circles. Her first crime novel, The Bungalow Mystery, appeared in 1923, and another nine mysteries were published before her untimely death in 1929.