The Blue Diamond (2 page)

“Then it is all right that Miss Mavis's maid should be the next,” the man responded, implanting a kiss upon her half-averted cheek. “Never mind, Minnie”—with a careless laugh—“there's nobody here to see!”

“How you do go on!” said Minnie, releasing herself and turning her hot cheeks away. “I have to be back at six to dress Miss Mavis for this dinner at Davenant Court, and we haven't drunk the water at the Wishing Well yet.”

“That is the next thing, is it?” the man said absently. He was gazing intently up at the grand old oak, under the wide-spreading branches of which they were standing. “Minnie, I believe that is a grey crow's nest up there! Wait a minute, I must have an egg if it is. This old fellow won't be difficult to climb, I fancy.”

“Oh, Jim, Jim! Indeed you mustn't!” the girl began. But her protest went unheeded. He had already thrown off his coat and was climbing up the tree before the words had left her mouth, and she could only watch his ascent in a sort of terrified fascination.

Half-way up, however, he halted with, as it seemed to her, a sharp exclamation, then after a moment's pause he turned and began his downward journey.

“'Twasn't a crow's after all!” he said as he slid rapidly to the ground. “It was nothing but some old rubbish, and the game wasn't worth the candle.”

“It will bring us bad luck, though,” Minnie wailed. “Whatever made you climb the Lovers' Oak, Jim? It shows right well you are a foreigner. If you'd been a Devonshire man you wouldn't have tried it on, not for twenty nests.”

Her lips were quivering, big tears were standing in her eyes. The man glanced at her with some compunction; quite evidently the ill-luck of which she spoke, and which his hasty action had braved, was a very real thing to her.

“Cheer up, Minnie!” he said with a rough attempt at consolation. “I promise you I will let the Lovers' Oak alone in the future. And come along now, I'll drink gallons of water at the Wishing Well to make up!”

“It is dreadfully unlucky”—Minnie sighed—“but maybe it'll be taken into account that you are a foreigner. Now the Wishing Well—do be careful there, Jim.”

“I won't move a step till you give me leave,” he assured her as they turned aside down a narrow rugged path and picked their way over stones worn smooth by the feet of countless lovers. “You wish while you drink, that's it, isn't it, Minnie?”

“Yes. They say in olden times a man who went out to the wars—Crusades they called them then—was wounded and reported dead. When after long years he made his way back to Lockford he found his wife, believing him dead, had married again. So for love of her he would claim neither title nor estate lest he should shame her, but made himself a hut here under the oak so that, all unknown, he could watch over her. They called him the hermit of Lockford, and only when he died was it found out who he really was.”

“Umph! I fancy I have heard something like that before,” said Jim slowly.

Minnie was too much in earnest to heed the scepticism in his tone.

“He lived on berries and things from the woods, and he got his drink from the Wishing Well. See”—as they came in sight of the clear, limpid water, with tiny, wild maidenhair-fern growing in every niche and cranny of the old grey rock above it—“this was his cup,” picking up a curious-looking hollowed stone that stood on the wide ledge beside, “so they say, but Miss Mavis doesn't believe it; she says she's sure it can't be so old.”

The man took it from her and looked at it.

“Um! Queer sort of thing, I should say. Now you must tell me what to do, Minnie, or I shall be making a mistake again. You have to drink out of this, don't you?

“Drink and wish,” she said solemnly. “Wish for something you want very much, Jim, for a man can only have three wishes granted in his lifetime.”

Jim stooped and filled the cup.

“Well, here goes, then! I wish—”

With a cry Minnie stopped him.

“You mustn't say what it is. You mustn't tell anyone, or you won't get it,” she said, with real distress. “Oh, do be careful, Jim! Let me drink first.”

“Right you are!” and with affected contrition he handed the cup to her.

Minnie stood silent a moment as if lost in thought, then she raised the cup to her lips and sipped the water slowly.

“Now, Jim!” she said as she passed it back.

Apparently Jim was in no uncertainty as to his wish; he emptied the cup with great celerity.

“That is soon done, then. Now if our wishes come true we shall be happy enough, Minnie.”

He tucked his arm in hers as they turned back.

“Yes, unless climbing the oak has brought us bad luck,” Minnie rejoined, unable to forget her grievance. “What made you stop when you got so far, Jim?” she went on curiously. “I heard you call out as if you were surprised.” The man hesitated a moment.

“I was surprised it wasn't a nest, after all. As for why I came back, I could see you didn't want me to go on and that's enough for me any day, Minnie.”

Minnie rewarded him with a glance and a smile.

“Why, Jim—” The sound of a clock striking the hour interrupted her. “Six! Why, I ought to be at the Manor!” she cried in consternation. “How we must have dawdled! Come, Jim,” quickening her steps, “we must make all the haste we can or I shall be late and Miss Mavis will be waiting.”

“Tell her you have been to the Lovers' Oak and the Wishing Well and she will understand,” suggested Jim as they hurried along. “I dare say she took her time with Mr. Davenant the other day. You won't be so very late, after all; we are getting to the edge of the wood, and it won't take you a minute to run across the Park. Oh, confound it all, here's that fellow Greyson!”

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 face 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.