The Blue Diamond (23 page)

“She was a stranger, then?” Mavis said.

“Evidently, because she didn't know her way about. She was asking for Townson's farm, and the directions for that were within my capability. Your Mrs. Grogram must have been a woman who pushed by us rather rudely, with a basket on her arm.''

“She doesn't stand much on ceremony,'' Mavis said with a smile, having a lively recollection of some of the worthy woman's remarks, “but she seemed very sure about Mrs. Leparge. And you say your stranger was not like her?”

“The resemblance did not strike me at the time,'' said Hilda carelessly; “She was not in widow's dress, you see, which makes such a difference, but she was about Mrs. Leparge's height, and—yes—I did not think of it before, but she may have been a little like her in the face.''

Mavis did not pursue the subject. Evidently Mrs. Grogram had made a mistake, she told herself, in spite of her positive words, for what possible motive could Hilda have for denying that she met Mrs. Leparge if she had done so?

Nevertheless the incident had left an unpleasant impression, and she felt by no means sorry when Arthur announced his intention of taking his fiancée for a long spin in the motor, and she was thus left free to follow her own devices.

Motoring, Arthur's latest hobby, had for the last few weeks threatened to supersede both painting and orchids; his new car was at present a source of unmixed joy, and so safely had he hitherto come through the perils inseparable from acting as his own chauffeur that even Lady Laura was becoming accustomed to seeing him depart without a single qualm.

Hilda looked particularly charming in her motor array, Arthur thought as he helped her into the car. Like himself, she disdained goggles, and the little pull-on hat which she wore, which pulled low down over her forehead, enhanced rather than concealed her brilliant complexion.

At first their progress was all that could be desired. The Manor was soon left miles behind, and Sir Arthur was loud in his praises of his new toy; then, as, regardless of regulation speed, they were swinging along over a fine stretch of level road, there was a whir, a crash, and the car came to a stop with a suddenness that sent Sir Arthur against the front of the motor.

“Something's wrong!” he said with a rueful countenance as he recovered himself.

Hilda laughed mischievously, though for one moment the colour had deserted her cheeks.

“That is certainly pretty obvious,” she said.

Sir Arthur made no comment as he bent over the machine and carefully investigated various nuts and cranks.

“It will take some time, I am afraid,” he said at last.

“Fortunately we are near Overdeen, and the smith there is an intelligent sort of man and, moreover, has had a good deal of practice on breakdowns. I dare say he will be able to help me. In the meantime”—he glanced perplexedly at Hilda—“there is the village inn, and Mrs. Medway is a very decent clean sort of person. If you would let me take you there while we put this thing to rights, I dare say she would get you a cup of tea.”

“Delicious!” Hilda exclaimed, springing out and accepting the situation with equanimity. “But you will have to let me go alone. You can't leave the car.''

“The car will not move,” Arthur said grimly. “Anybody who puts that in working order before I get back will deserve the thing for his pains. Come, if you can manage it—the house is by those trees.”

Mrs. Medway, the smiling buxom hostess of the Red Lion, received them with open arms. She placed a private sitting-room at their disposal, and while Sir Arthur went off to interview the smith she entertained Hilda with graphic descriptions of the different accidents that had occurred in the neighbourhood.

Finally, when Sir Arthur appeared with the tidings that the smith had declared himself fully capable of managing the repairs alone, Mrs. Medway placed a luxurious tea before the young couple and left them alone.

Sir Arthur's eyes dwelt lovingly on Hilda as she poured out the tea and handed it to him.

“I wonder what sort of a dinner that good woman thinks we should eat if we ate all the good things she has provided?” he said with a laugh. “Ah, Hilda, this is like a foretaste of the times that are coming!”

“As to quantity, do you mean?” Hilda inquired demurely.

“You know what I mean!” he went on passionately. “Of the life that we are going to share together—-of the time when we shall be alone, Hilda.”

The girl bent her face over the tea-cup.

“Ah! If it comes—”

“Do not say ‘if',” he cried. “Hilda, you do not know what this means to me.”

The girl raised her eyes.

“Do I not? Oh, Arthur! You must not ignore the condition I made. When my memory comes back—”

Arthur caught her hand.

“Memory! Memory!” he echoed in a low deep tone. “It is not your memory I want—it is you yourself, the woman I love. When you are my wife, Hilda, I too shall have no memory, for I shall remember nothing but the fact that you are mine and that we are together.”

Hilda bit her lip nervously.

“Oh, I wish I could remember—if I only knew my name—who my friends were!”

“Why do you wish for other friends?” Arthur cried, pressing his lips to the hand he still held. “Am I not enough for you? Sweetheart, you have filled my life so entirely that I want no one but you! Day after day I ask myself if it can really be true—if this wonderful thing had really happened to me—that you are indeed my own!”

Hilda drew her hand away nervously as she averted her face. Sir Arthur could see that she was very pale, but her very coldness only rendered her more attractive in his eyes.

“Darling,” he pleaded, “don't turn from me! If I could only make you understand how in you everything seems completed for me! There is only one thought in my mind all day—one word fills my life, and that word is—Hilda!”

Hilda glanced round once more; her face was still pale, but a suspicion of mirth gleamed in her eyes and played round the curves of her mobile lips.

“How about the car, and the orchids, and the Elaine?” she asked mischievously. “No, no, Arthur, your heart is not like the letter-lock of your safe! It will open for more words than one.”

For a moment Arthur looked distinctly aggrieved. That Hilda was not a demonstrative girl, that she was inclined apparently rather to scoff at his sentiment when they were alone, he had long since discovered, but he told himself that it was a girlish caprice, that she was only delaying the day of complete surrender, and his face brightened.

“Don't you understand how outside one's life all those things are? Hilda—”

“Is the only combination for which the key will turn,” she said as she laughed, though the man saw that her slender hands were trembling and took courage. “Are you sure, Arthur? Suppose I tried orchids or motor or Elaine?”

“Elaine means Hilda to me,” he smiled, entering into the spirit of her jest. “You might try that and be successful.”

“Isn't it strange?” Hilda said abruptly, her mind evidently wandering from Sir Arthur's love-making. “I know I have seen one of those letter-locks before, and I cannot tell where or what the word was. I wonder whether it was the same as yours?”

“Hardly likely, I think,” Sir Arthur said quickly. “Don't try to remember, Hilda. Memory is more likely to come back if you do not try to strain it.”

Already the look of helpless bewilderment that he had learned to dread was coming into the girl's face; she leaned forward and put her hands over her eyes.

“Oh, I thought the cloud was lifting then! Just for a moment I seemed to have a vision of what had been — and—now—now it is all dark again!”

Sir Arthur felt desperate—consolation seemed impossible when these moods of depression overtook Hilda. He laid his hand on her shoulder.

“It will come all right some day.”

The girl stirred impatiently.

“It—I seemed to see it all then; and now, with the letters, it has all faded away. But it is near—so near. Arthur”—looking at him with eyes once more filled with tears—“if I could only remember that word I feel sure that everything would come back, and something seems to tell me that it is the same as yours.”

“I do not think it is very likely, dear. Ours is a very ordinary little word, and so far as I know it has never been altered.”

Hilda's lips quivered pitifully.

“If I could only find out, Arthur! If you love me, help me—tell me yours.”

My darling, it has always been kept a dead secret, and it could not possibly—”

Hilda's face seemed to quiver all over into sobs.

“Such a little thing, and you said you loved me; and it is so near—so near! Then all would be clear, and we could be happy as we never can be till I know.”

“Hilda, dearest!” Arthur bent over her.

She pushed him away and buried her face in her hands.

“Oh, how can I make myself remember? It will kill me!”

Arthur put his arms round her and drew her, still resisting, to his heart.

“If the word will help you, sweetheart, you shall know it. And after all it is not breaking the rule, for you and I are to be one—you are to be my second self!”

“Yes, yes!” Hilda whispered, her arms stealing for one instant round his neck. “Ah, so soon, Arthur— when I know!”

“It is such a simple word,” Arthur went on; ”just ‘m—i—n—e'—mine, you see, only we spell it backwards—‘e—n—i—m.'—That is all the secret, Hilda. Now does it help you, dear?”

“I don't know. Wait a minute,” the girl said slowly, her head still resting on his shoulder, her perfumed hair sweeping across his face and intoxicating his senses. “It—Oh, Arthur, I see a tall man with white hair! I remember him—he was my father, my dear father! And they called him General—General—Oh, it is going! I can't remember—”

There was a knock at the door.

“If you please, Sir Arthur, the man has brought your car round,” said Mrs. Medway, discreetly averting her eyes from the young couple, whose confusion was plainly evident. “He says he hopes as you will be able to manage it home all right now.”

“A
RE THE
Pontifexes coming down?”

“I think so. All our friends have been very kind; but, Garth, though we have looked forward to Arthur's coming of age all this time, now that it is at hand I don't seem to care—it is all spoilt.”

Mavis's eyes were very troubled as she glanced up at her tall lover and she watched his dark face anxiously in the pause that followed.

Garth's eyes wandered from her to the other side of the room, where Hilda sat with Sir Arthur, leaning forward in a pretty attitude of attention and listening to him with her eyes fixed on his face, a diamond star, Arthur's latest gift, sparkling in her gleaming hair.

“I am very sorry, dearest,” he said slowly at last, “but from the first I have seen that this—this infatuation of Arthur's could only bring trouble.”

“Poor mother has to accept it because Arthur is so determined,” Mavis went on, “but it is worrying her dreadfully, and she is getting quite thin. She is so disappointed because it means the downfall of her dearest hopes. Still, after all”—in a brighter tone—“one must not always look at the dark side of things. Mother doesn't really dislike Hilda, and if everything should turn out satisfactory about her I dare say she will be happy enough about the match after all.”

“I hope so.”

But neither Garth's countenance nor tone was expressive of confidence, and the momentary gleam of brightness in Mavis' face faded away.

“You do not think so. Garth, you have not heard— I have not told you that yesterday just for a moment Hilda had a flash of memory? She remembered her father—a tall old man with white hair—and she said they called him General; but it all faded away before she could remember the name.”

“That was unfortunate.” A curious smile played for a moment round Garth's mouth. “I gave myself a holiday on Tuesday, Mavis.”

The girl looked at him in surprise at the sudden change of subject.

“Did you? Where did you go? I thought you said you were so much occupied just now. Why, you said you were so busy that you could hardly spare the time to come down here!”

“So I was—so I am busy,” Garth said imperturbably; “but I was determined to make time for this. I went down to Brighton.”

“To Brighton?” Mavis did not look quite pleased.

“Yes. I wonder whether you will be surprised to hear that my visit was to the superintendent of police there.”

“Oh, Garth! Does that mean that you have discovered anything—that you have found Hilda's—”

“I found out one thing,” Garth went on, “that no daughter of Mrs. Leparge's has disappeared from a Brighton school. The whole story, as far as Brighton is concerned, is an entire fabrication.”

“Garth, how could you—”

“It was not difficult. I felt very doubtful of the lady from the first moment I saw her. Her grief for her daughter did not ring true. When I found that no disappearance of the kind had been reported to the police my suspicion that the whole was a made-up story became almost a certainty; but I obtained a list of the ladies' schools in Brighton. There is no Miss Chesterton, but there are a Chester and a Chesham. I called upon both and found, as I had expected, that no Hilda Leparge had been a pupil, and that there had been no disappearance from their schools. The rest of the matter I left in the superintendent's hands. I had his report this morning. No such name is known at any of the Brighton schools, and, in short, he says that if his inquiries have made one thing more certain than another it is that no disappearance in the circumstances related by Mrs. Leparge has taken place at Brighton.”

Mavis caught her breath quickly.

“Garth, what does it all mean? What object could she have had in coming here if she had not lost her daughter? I can't understand it.”