The Blue Diamond (3 page)

“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.

“Y
OU 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.

“I thought I heard something. Surely there is some one sobbing.”

“Among the trees over there,” Sir Arthur said with a backward jerk of his head. “I must see what it is. You won't mind being left along, mother? Jervis will look after you.”

“Oh, my dear boy, don't think about us; we shall be all right,” Lady Laura said hurriedly. “Some poor creature must be in trouble, I am afraid.”

“A tramp, probably,” Sir Arthur remarked as he strode across the grass to the spot whence the sounds appeared to come.

The brilliant moonlight made it easy for him to discern a dark figure crouching at the foot of one of the big beeches as he went forward and heard the sound of piteous weeping and sobbing.

“What is the matter? Can I do anything?” he began awkwardly enough.

At the first sound of his voice the figure started violently; the dark cloak fell back and he caught sight of a white dress beneath. Instinct told him that this was no common tramp or wayfarer. He went forward, raising his hat courteously.

“I beg your pardon. I fear you are in trouble. Can I do anything?” he said.

The woman raised herself slowly to her feet, and he saw that she was above the common height; another glance told even his unpractised masculine eyes that the cloak slipping from her shoulders was a distinctly fashionable garment, and that the white dress underneath was just such a frock as those in which Mavis and Dorothy were wont to appear.

She turned to him with a forlorn gesture.

“What am I to do? I do not know where I am. I have lost my way.”

There was a quiver in the clear pathetic tones.

All the chivalry in Arthur's nature was aroused.

“You will allow us to do what we can,” he said quickly. “My mother—Lady Laura Hargreave—is waiting in the carriage just below. If you will allow me to take you to her, later on we shall be delighted to see that you arrive safely at your destination.”

She gazed at him a moment, then she spread out her hands.

“That is it,” she said with an irrepressible sob, “I have forgotten where I was going! I cannot remember—anything!” 

She swayed slightly, her voice failed, she staggered and would have fallen. Hargreave sprang forward and caught her in his arms.

“You are ill!” he cried anxiously.

“Oh, I don't know!” she gasped. “I—I think I am dying!”

Sir Arthur felt that she was resting a dead weight against his breast, and all his sympathy was called forth by her evident distress. As he gazed down at the white face with its exquisitely moulded features, at the wealth of golden hair lying across his coat, such a thrill ran through his pulses as he had never experienced in all his mild affection for Dorothy. Gathering the slender form in his arms, he turned back to the carriage.

Lady Laura was leaning out.

“Oh, my dear boy, what is it?” she asked in evident perturbation. “We heard voices, but who—”

“It is a lady—she has lost her way,” Sir Arthur said breathlessly as he laid his burden in the carriage. “We must take her to the house, mother. I think she has fainted; when she recovers she will be able to explain matters.''

“What could she be doing in the park?” Lady Laura went on helplessly, while Mavis and Dorothy, with ready sympathy, were settling the helpless girl more comfortably and chafing her cold hands.

“She has lost her way; she was too far gone to tell me any more,” Arthur said briefly. “Shall I tell Jervis to drive on, mother?”

“Well, I suppose so,'' Lady Laura said, perforce resigning herself to the inevitable. “Though really—”

“She is well dressed,'' Dorothy said presently in a puzzled tone. “But what could she be doing wandering about alone at this time of night, Aunt Laura?”

Lady Laura made a gesture as if washing her hands of the whole affair.

“I have no idea indeed, my dear.”

“She is better,” Mavis said quickly as the carriage drew up at the door of the Manor. “See, she is opening her eyes! Get some brandy, Arthur,” as her brother came round. “She will be able to walk in a minute or two.”