The Blue Diamond (29 page)

With a faint flickering smile the girl looked into his face. She made a little imperative gesture, and he tore off his mask “That is better,” she said faintly. “I—I am going to die, Jim.”

Then her eyes wandered restlessly away from him, round the curious little room, at the pitying faces; then she said softly:

“Arthur!”

The young man kneeled down beside her, too bewildered yet to grasp the meaning of the situation thoroughly; his mind seemed only capable of retaining the one impression, the stupendous fact that Hilda was dying.

The girl turned her head a little towards him.

“Now—you understand, and I can only say—forgive!”

“Ah, no, I understand nothing,” Arthur said, his breath coming in great gasps, “except that you have given your life for mine! Ah, Hilda—”

The girl's eyelids flickered.

“It wasn't—just that,” she whispered; “it was for Jim. I am glad you were not hurt—you were very kind to me. But just now my time is short and I want it all for some one else. You will understand everything, some day, and perhaps then, if you have not forgotten, you will —forgive.”

“Forgive!” Arthur repeated in the same bewildered accents. “Hilda, I can only—”

“For deceiving you,” the weak accents went on. “Don't you see that this—this was why I came to the Manor? Why I drew you on to care for me? It was not love really—it was only a sort of fascination.”

She paused and struggled for breath. Dr. Grieve held a glass of some restorative to her lips, and with an effort she spoke again.

“When it's all over, when I am—away, and you know how it all was, you will soon forget me and be far happier without me. I seem to see it all”—closing her eyes for a moment—“but you will keep the diamond necklace, and I think I am rather glad it is so, for I am weary of it all, and you have been very good to me. Now—now I have but a few minutes left, and I only want—Jim!”

A look of ineffable joy transfigured the dying face, a look of trembling ecstatic joy which Arthur had never seen. She turned her head away and stretched out her weak hands to the man who, on the other side, was bending over her in unutterable anguish.

“Only you, now, Jim!” she whispered. “Take me in your arms, dear; I want to forget it all, the weariness and the fret, and only remember that we are together again —you and I.”

The man held out his manacled hands with a pitiful gesture.

“For her sake I give you my word of honour I will not attempt to get away,” he said.

The men to whom he was handcuffed glanced inquiringly at Superintendent Stokes, and receiving his nod of assent speedily released him. The man then knelt down and took the dying girl in his arms. As if by common consent all the others drew back to the outer doorway, but those standing nearest caught the broken accents.

“Ah, Hilda, my darling, my own! I have killed you, though for your sake I would have laid down my life!” and there was the sound of a man's deep sob.

The girl tried to put her arms round his neck and failed.—‘

“Ah, Jim dear, don't do that! The time is so short and I want to say—to tell you that it was not your fault. I threw myself in the way, for I saw you meant to shoot him, and he was pointing at you, I thought, but now I am—afraid—afraid of what may happen. But they—they ought not to do much to a man who, by accident, shoots his own wife.''

As the last words left her lips there was a low sigh, almost a moan, Hilda glanced round restlessly.

“So this is the end, Jim! The great
coup
has turned out a failure after all. We weren't brought up to think honesty the best policy; but if I could have my time over again I would do differently I think.''

“Oh, don't, don't!” the man broke in passionately. “Hilda, my heart is breaking! It has been my fault, all of it. Forgive me, darling—tell me once more that you forgive me!”

Hilda put up one hand to the dark face so near hers.

“There is nothing to forgive, Jim. If there were, a woman forgives anything—to the man she loves. All that is gone, Jim—only our love remains,” drawing his head down.

Dr. Grieve looked at the superintendent.

“She may last an hour or two, or she may go any minute,” he said, “but she will probably not recover consciousness again. You had better clear these people away—they are only blocking up the air and doing no good,” with a nod towards the crowd outside the door.

But as the superintendent turned and vigorously supported Dr. Grieve's views they began to disperse.

Mr. Gore, who turned away with the others, felt his arm caught from behind.

“Uncle Robert!” It was Mavis's voice; her face looked white and frightened. “What has happened? Arthur told us to stay upstairs, Dorothy and I—and we did for a long time; but when we heard the scream and the people running about we came down. What is it?”

“A determined attempt to steal the Blue Diamond, I should say,” her uncle replied grimly, “one that pretty nearly succeeded too.”

“But, Uncle Robert”—Mavis's voice sank very low, and she trembled from head to foot—“who was it on the ground? It looked like, but it could not be, Hilda!”

Mr. Gore put his arm under his niece's and led her back to her room.

“Don't you see, child, I was right all along. That poor thing lying there was an impostor, in league with these burglars. It was she—there can't be the least doubt of it—who admitted them to the house; and it is quite evident that she had contrived to worm the secret of the lock out of Arthur.”

Mavis put up her hand to her head.

“I mean that she came purposely,” he corrected, running his hand through his white hair and ruffling it up until it stood on end. “Heavens, Mavis, is it possible you don't see how it is now? The girl was one of a gang of burglars who had planned a great stroke of business—no less a thing in fact, than to get possession of the Blue Diamond; and this woman was sent here to worm herself into Arthur's confidence—I dare say they saw he was just the sort of young fool to do anything for a pretty face—and finally admit the rest of the party.”

Mavis interrupted him with a cry of pain.

“Oh, I can't believe it, Uncle Robert, I can't believe it! Hilda—”

“You will have to believe facts, I suppose,” snapped her uncle. “Now some one has got to break the news to your mother, Mavis, and it seems to me that you are the proper person.”

“Yes, yes. I will go at once. Dorothy is with her now,” faltered Mavis. “Uncle Robert, do you mean that she hadn't lost her memory at all?”

“Lost her memory! Certainly she hadn't. That was merely a pretext for getting into the house and stopping there. I dare say she had seen the idea in some novel or other that put it into her head. Very likely she knew the sort of people she had to deal with. If I had been here she would have found it a difficult matter. But what is the matter here—what is all this noise about?”

They had reached the long corridor leading to Lady Laura's room when their progress was arrested by a little group. Mrs. Parkyns and Dorothy were bending over a shaking, sobbing figure in the window-seat. With a throb of surprise Mavis recognized her maid. She paused.

“Why, Minnie, what is wrong?” she asked.

Dorothy looked up.

“Oh, Mavis, she is so upset! She thinks—”

“It isn't thinking, Miss Dorothy,” Minnie broke out vehemently. “I am sure. I saw his face quite plain.”

Mavis glanced at Dorothy.

“What does she mean? Whom has she seen?”

Dorothy's face was very pale; great tears were standing in her eyes.

“She thinks that the—the burglar—the one who tried to shoot Arthur—is Gregory, Arthur's orchid man, you know, and—”

“So he is, so he is!” wailed Minnie. “There is no mistake, Miss Dorothy. Oh, what a fool I have been! What a fool—and worse! It will be the death of me, Miss Mavis! I couldn't live and face it.”

“Minnie, what is the use of talking like that?” Mavis said wearily. “You will have to put up with it if it is so; but I can't think—”

She paused and revolved matters in her mind; of the man bending over Hilda she had caught only the most cursory glimpse; still, she had a vague feeling that in some sense his appearance had not been unfamiliar.

After a moment's bewilderment Mr. Gore stepped forward.

“The girl is right enough!” he said excitedly. “I had the queerest feeling all the while that I had seen the fellow somewhere before, though I couldn't locate him; but Arthur would have me go to look at the orchids yesterday, and this was the man who took us round.”

“Oh, it was Jim Gregory, safe enough, sir!” Minnie said, looking up with dry, tearless eyes and twitching lips. “Why was I ever born?” with another burst of sobbing.

“Come, come, my good girl,” he said, “you won't do a bit of good by distressing yourself like that! You are not the only person who has been made a fool of over this business—you can console yourself by thinking that you are in just the same boat with a good many more!”

“Ah, if that was all, sir!” Minnie gasped. “But—”

“Yes, sir,” Mrs. Parkyns said severely—the events of the night had left her usually comely face unwontedly pale—“Minnie, finding as she had a key as fitted the door, has been meeting her young man in the conservatory when the family was at dinner.”

“What! Do you mean to say that she let him in to-night?”

“Oh, no, sir, no! She had nothing to do with that,” the housekeeper interposed. “It was before that.”

“Is Mr. Gore here? Could I speak to him a moment?” The interruption came from Superintendent Stokes, who had suddenly appeared at the end of the passage.

Mr. Gore bustled forward.

“Certainly! What can I do for you?” he said.

“Well, Sir Arthur is upset by all this, and it is no use asking him anything. There ought to be a magistrate here. I have taken the liberty of sending a dog-cart over for Squire Lewis.”

“Quite right, superintendent, quite right! To take that poor thing's depositions, I conclude?” Mr. Gore said, lowering his voice.

The superintendent shook his head.

“No, it is too late for that, sir. She passed away a few minutes ago.”

“What dead? Well, well, poor thing!” the other said, looking very much shocked. “It seems terribly sudden. Well, it isn't for us who have never known her temptations to judge her. If she sinned she has suffered for it, poor girl.”

“Just so, sir,” the superintendent acquiesced respectfully. “If you could leave the ladies for a moment, sir, I could explain.”

Mr. Gore moved aside with him, and Mavis went on.

“I must go to my mother,” she said. “Try to control yourself, Minnie. We shall all be wiser another time.”

“Yes, Miss Mavis!” But Minnie's face was not any less woebegone—the shadow of a terrible fear still lay in her eyes.

Dorothy followed her cousin and slid her hand into hers.

“Mavis, did you hear the police officer say that Hilda was—dead?”

Mavis shuddered.

“Yes, I heard! But, Dorothy, I think I must be dazed. I don't seem to care about anything—to be surprised at anything.”

Dorothy's soft brown eyes were full of tears.

“It is all so dreadful! I cannot help thinking of her. Only a few hours ago she was as well as any of us, and now—and it is so terrible for him—poor Arthur!”

“H
E IS
asking for you, Arthur, and he has but a short time to live. They have taken him into Jenkins' room.”

“Why?” Sir Arthur was sitting in his study, his head laid on his clasped arms on the writing-table. The face he raised as Garth Davenant entered was haggard and lined, there were dark circles round his eyes, and his mouth twitched convulsively.

Garth laid his hand on his arm.

“He must have taken the poison before she died, Arthur. It—it has taken rapid effect since, and Dr. Grieve says his hours are numbered.”

Arthur looked at him with dull, lack-lustre eyes.

“He was Gregory, you know, Garth—the best man I ever had for orchids,” he said in a monotonous tone.

“Yes, yes, I know. We have all been blind, old chap. I must confess I thought—”

“And he was Hilda's husband,” Arthur went on as if he did not hear. “As I have been sitting here, Garth, that one phrase, ‘Hilda's husband' has been beating into my brain with ceaseless, senseless iteration.” His face worked painfully.

The compassion in Garth's eyes grew and deepened, but his voice was studiedly cold when he spoke.

“Hilda's husband,” he repeated steadily. “But there is much else to be told, Arthur, much that she wished you to know. Won't you come and hear it?”

For a moment Arthur hesitated, but the stronger will of the other man conquered, and he rose.

Garth put his arm through his and led him, walking with the halting, uncertain step of extreme old age, to a room where another act of the tragedy was being played out.

On the threshold Arthur hesitated; the narrow pallet bed had been drawn out to the middle of the room to suit the doctor's convenience, and at a little table behind the bed Mr. Lewis, looking watchful and alert with his papers before him, sat waiting to write. Dr. Grieve was there, and Mr. Mainwaring, Mr. Pauncefort, the Davenants' solicitor, and his own. Superintendent Stokes placed a chair for Sir Arthur. The young man's gaze, after wandering round the room restlessly, had come back to the bed. He started incredulously as he saw the drawn ashen face, in which the only living things seemed to be the bright, black eyes that darted round incessantly, as he heard the heavy, laboured breathing.

The sick man was trying to raise himself in bed; his finger was pointing at his late employer.

“I am glad you have come, because I must tell you —must make you understand that it wasn't her fault. The blame of it was all mine; she did not want to come, but I made her. I had thought it all out—it seemed too good a chance to be missed—and she would do anything for me.”