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- Herausgeber: Dean Street Press
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
"Who knows if he didn't make away with her here? Those things found in the Home Coppice show that she was made away with plain enough, I say." Jim Gregory, under-gardener at Hargreave Manor, finds something unexpected when climbing Lover's Oak but won't say what. Instead he's all ears regarding the legendary 'Luck of the Hargreaves' diamonds, destined for the future bride of Sir Arthur, the new squire. Sir Arthur himself then discovers a beautiful stranger, lost in the woods near the manor. She cannot recall a thing—not even her name. She is given shelter and Mary Marston, a private nurse, recognizes her—and abruptly goes missing. Nurse Marston must still be in the house, it is initially agreed—but if so, where? Who got rid of Nurse Marston? To whom does the tobacco pouch with the floral design belong? And why was a blood-stained cuff found in the woods? These mysteries, and more, Superintendent Stokes is determined to solve. The Blue Diamond (1925) is a classic of early golden age crime fiction. This new edition, the first in over eighty years, features an introduction by crime fiction historian Curtis Evans. "Tired men, trotting home at the end of an imperfect day, pop into the library and ask for an Annie Haynes. They have not made a mistake in the street number. It is not a cocktail they are asking for…" Sketch
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016
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Annie HaynesThe Blue Diamond
“Who knows if he didn’t make away with her here? Those things found in the Home Coppice show that she was made away with plain enough, I say.”
Jim Gregory, under-gardener at Hargreave Manor, finds something unexpected when climbing Lover’s Oak but won’t say what. Instead he’s all ears regarding the legendary ‘Luck of the Hargreaves’ diamonds, destined for the future bride of Sir Arthur, the new squire.
Sir Arthur himself then discovers a beautiful stranger, lost in the woods near the manor. She cannot recall a thing—not even her name. She is given shelter and Mary Marston, a private nurse, recognizes her—and abruptly goes missing. Nurse Marston must still be in the house, it is initially agreed—but if so, where?
Who got rid of Nurse Marston? To whom does the tobacco pouch with the floral design belong? And why was a blood-stained cuff found in the woods? These mysteries, and more, Superintendent Stokes is determined to solve. The Blue Diamond (1925) is a classic of early golden age crime fiction. This new edition, the first in over eighty years, features an introduction by crime fiction historian Curtis Evans.
“Tired men, trotting home at the end of an imperfect day, pop into the library and ask for an Annie Haynes. They have not made a mistake in the street number. It is not a cocktail they are asking for…” Sketch
The Mystery of the Missing Author Annie Haynes and Her Golden Age Detective Fiction
The psychological enigma of Agatha Christie’s notorious 1926 vanishing has continued to intrigue Golden Age mystery fans to the present day. The Queen of Crime’s eleven-day disappearing act is nothing, however, compared to the decades-long disappearance, in terms of public awareness, of between-the-wars mystery writer Annie Haynes (1865-1929), author of a series of detective novels published between 1923 and 1930 by Agatha Christie’s original English publisher, The Bodley Head. Haynes’s books went out of print in the early Thirties, not long after her death in 1929, and her reputation among classic detective fiction readers, high in her lifetime, did not so much decline as dematerialize. When, in 2013, I first wrote a piece about Annie Haynes’ work, I knew of only two other living persons besides myself who had read any of her books. Happily, Dean Street Press once again has come to the rescue of classic mystery fans seeking genre gems from the Golden Age, and is republishing all Haynes’ mystery novels. Now that her crime fiction is coming back into print, the question naturally arises: Who Was Annie Haynes? Solving the mystery of this forgotten author’s lost life has taken leg work by literary sleuths on two continents (my thanks for their assistance to Carl Woodings and Peter Harris).
Until recent research uncovered new information about Annie Haynes, almost nothing about her was publicly known besides the fact of her authorship of twelve mysteries during the Golden Age of detective fiction. Now we know that she led an altogether intriguing life, too soon cut short by disability and death, which took her from the isolation of the rural English Midlands in the nineteenth century to the cultural high life of Edwardian London. Haynes was born in 1865 in the Leicestershire town of Ashby-de-la-Zouch, the first child of ironmonger Edwin Haynes and Jane (Henderson) Haynes, daughter of Montgomery Henderson, longtime superintendent of the gardens at nearby Coleorton Hall, seat of the Beaumont baronets. After her father left his family, young Annie resided with her grandparents at the gardener’s cottage at Coleorton Hall, along with her mother and younger brother. Here Annie doubtlessly obtained an acquaintance with the ways of the country gentry that would serve her well in her career as a genre fiction writer.
We currently know nothing else of Annie Haynes’ life in Leicestershire, where she still resided (with her mother) in 1901, but by 1908, when Haynes was in her early forties, she was living in London with Ada Heather-Bigg (1855-1944) at the Heather-Bigg family home, located halfway between Paddington Station and Hyde Park at 14 Radnor Place, London. One of three daughters of Henry Heather-Bigg, a noted pioneer in the development of orthopedics and artificial limbs, Ada Heather-Bigg was a prominent Victorian and Edwardian era feminist and social reformer. In the 1911 British census entry for 14 Radnor Place, Heather-Bigg, a “philanthropist and journalist,” is listed as the head of the household and Annie Haynes, a “novelist,” as a “visitor,” but in fact Haynes would remain there with Ada Heather-Bigg until Haynes’ death in 1929.
Haynes’ relationship with Ada Heather-Bigg introduced the aspiring author to important social sets in England’s great metropolis. Though not a novelist herself, Heather-Bigg was an important figure in the city’s intellectual milieu, a well-connected feminist activist of great energy and passion who believed strongly in the idea of women attaining economic independence through remunerative employment. With Ada Heather-Bigg behind her, Annie Haynes’s writing career had powerful backing indeed. Although in the 1911 census Heather-Bigg listed Haynes’ occupation as “novelist,” it appears that Haynes did not publish any novels in book form prior to 1923, the year that saw the appearance of The Bungalow Mystery, which Haynes dedicated to Heather-Bigg. However, Haynes was a prolific producer of newspaper serial novels during the second decade of the twentieth century, penning such works as Lady Carew’s Secret, Footprints of Fate, A Pawn of Chance, The Manor Tragedy and many others.
Haynes’ twelve Golden Age mystery novels, which appeared in a tremendous burst of creative endeavor between 1923 and 1930, like the author’s serial novels retain, in stripped-down form, the emotionally heady air of the nineteenth-century triple-decker sensation novel, with genteel settings, shocking secrets, stormy passions and eternal love all at the fore, yet they also have the fleetness of Jazz Age detective fiction. Both in their social milieu and narrative pace Annie Haynes’ detective novels bear considerable resemblance to contemporary works by Agatha Christie; and it is interesting to note in this regard that Annie Haynes and Agatha Christie were the only female mystery writers published by The Bodley Head, one of the more notable English mystery imprints in the early Golden Age. “A very remarkable feature of recent detective fiction,” observed the Illustrated London News in 1923, “is the skill displayed by women in this branch of story-telling. Isabel Ostrander, Carolyn Wells, Annie Haynes and last, but very far from least, Agatha Christie, are contesting the laurels of Sherlock Holmes’ creator with a great spirit, ingenuity and success.” Since Ostrander and Wells were American authors, this left Annie Haynes, in the estimation of the Illustrated London News, as the main British female competitor to Agatha Christie. (Dorothy L. Sayers, who, like Haynes, published her debut mystery novel in 1923, goes unmentioned.) Similarly, in 1925 The Sketch wryly noted that “[t]ired men, trotting home at the end of an imperfect day, have been known to pop into the library and ask for an Annie Haynes. They have not made a mistake in the street number. It is not a cocktail they are asking for…”
Twenties critical opinion adjudged that Annie Haynes’ criminous concoctions held appeal not only for puzzle fiends impressed with the “considerable craftsmanship” of their plots (quoting from the Sunday Times review of The Bungalow Mystery), but also for more general readers attracted to their purely literary qualities. “Not only a crime story of merit, but also a novel which will interest readers to whom mystery for its own sake has little appeal,” avowed The Nation of Haynes’ The Secret of Greylands, while the New Statesman declared of The Witness on the Roof that “Miss Haynes has a sense of character; her people are vivid and not the usual puppets of detective fiction.” Similarly, the Bookman deemed the characters in Haynes’ The Abbey Court Murder “much truer to life than is the case in many sensational stories” and The Spectator concluded of The Crime at Tattenham Corner, “Excellent as a detective tale, the book also is a charming novel.”
Sadly, Haynes’ triumph as a detective novelist proved short lived. Around 1914, about the time of the outbreak of the Great War, Haynes had been stricken with debilitating rheumatoid arthritis that left her in constant pain and hastened her death from heart failure in 1929, when she was only 63. Haynes wrote several of her detective novels on fine days in Kensington Gardens, where she was wheeled from 14 Radnor Place in a bath chair, but in her last years she was able only to travel from her bedroom to her study. All of this was an especially hard blow for a woman who had once been intensely energetic and quite physically active.
In a foreword to The Crystal Beads Murder, the second of Haynes’ two posthumously published mysteries, Ada Heather-Bigg noted that Haynes’ difficult daily physical struggle “was materially lightened by the warmth of friendships” with other authors and by the “sympathetic and friendly relations between her and her publishers.” In this latter instance Haynes’ experience rather differed from that of her sister Bodleian, Agatha Christie, who left The Bodley Head on account of what she deemed an iniquitous contract that took unjust advantage of a naive young author. Christie moved, along with her landmark detective novel The Murder of Roger Ackroyd (1926), to Collins and never looked back, enjoying ever greater success with the passing years.
At the time Christie crossed over to Collins, Annie Haynes had only a few years of life left. After she died at 14 Radnor Place on 30 March 1929, it was reported in the press that “many people well-known in the literary world” attended the author’s funeral at St. Michaels and All Angels Church, Paddington, where her sermon was delivered by the eloquent vicar, Paul Nichols, brother of the writer Beverley Nichols and dedicatee of Haynes’ mystery novel The Master of the Priory; yet by the time of her companion Ada Heather-Bigg’s death in 1944, Haynes and her once highly-praised mysteries were forgotten. (Contrastingly, Ada Heather-Bigg’s name survives today in the University College of London’s Ada Heather-Bigg Prize in Economics.) Only three of Haynes’ novels were ever published in the United States, and she passed away less than a year before the formation of the Detection Club, missing any chance of being invited to join this august body of distinguished British detective novelists. Fortunately, we have today entered, when it comes to classic mystery, a period of rediscovery and revival, giving a reading audience a chance once again, after over eighty years, to savor the detective fiction fare of Annie Haynes. Bon appétit!
Curtis Evans
Contents
Chapter One
“THERE! I think that will about do! No, stay—the tail of that ‘M’ is not quite right, and I will make it all a bit deeper while I am about it. Our initials must last as long as anybody’s, eh, Minnie?”
The girl blushed and smiled as she glanced at the tall, well-set-up figure.
“I think they look beautiful,” she said shyly, as after putting a few finishing touches the man stepped back to her side and surveyed his handiwork with pride: J.G. and M.S.
“May it soon be M.G.,” he said as he slipped his arm round her waist. “What a lot of initials there are! The old tree will soon be full.”
“All the lovers that have been in Lockford for years have carved their initials there,” the girl observed, looking up at the wide, hoary trunk. “See here, Jim, these new ones—G.D. and M.H. That will be Mr. Garth Davenant and Miss Mavis.”
“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.
“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.
Chapter Two
“YOU 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.”
“I could help her—”
“No, it will be better to wait,” Mavis said decidedly. “The brandy, please.”
She held it to the girl’s lips and saw that a few drops were swallowed and that a tinge of colour was returning to the pale face before she spoke again.
“You are better now, aren’t you?” Dorothy said gently as the stranger opened her eyes again and made an ineffectual attempt to rise.
“I—I think so,” she said unsteadily. “I should like to—”
“Now we will help you indoors,” Mavis interrupted quickly. “You can tell us all about it then.”
Sir Arthur held out his arm, and with Mavis’s help on the other side the girl managed to walk into the hall, sinking with a pretty gesture of thanks into one of the big oaken chairs.
Lady Laura, looking perplexed and doubtful, waited near the door, the old butler and the footman, discreetly unconscious, hovered around. Dorothy knelt down and rubbed the chilly white fingers.
Presently the girl looked at her in a puzzled fashion and sat up.
“Where am I? I don’t understand,” she began, gazing around with bewildered eyes.
“This is Hargreave Manor,” Mavis said gently. “Were you trying to make your way here when we found you?”
“No, I think not,” the girl said unsteadily. “I don’t know the name at all. I was under a tree—it was damp and cold—” She looked round in a vague troubled way that went straight to Lady Laura’s heart and dispelled certain misgivings as to the wisdom of the course to which she felt committed.
“You are not well, I think, my dear,” she said gently. “Will you let us know your name so that we can communicate with your friends? And, —Mavis, tell them to make the pink room ready.”
The stranger’s big blue eyes filled with tears; she pulled her hands from Dorothy’s gentle clasp and thrust back her mass of golden hair.
“My name—” she faltered. “I don’t know—I don’t seem to remember anything at all, except that I was all alone and cold and tired.” Her lips quivered pitifully. “Perhaps,” glancing appealingly at Lady Laura, “it will all come back in a little while. I—I don’t feel very well just now.”
Lady Laura’s face as she glanced at Mavis was very grave, but her voice sounded reassuring as she gently touched the shaking hands.
“You will be better after a night’s rest, my dear, and be able to tell us all about yourself. For the present don’t try to think of anything; just lie back and put your feet on this stool and try to rest.”
She laid a thick rug over her and turned aside, drawing her son with her to the other side of the hall.
“Arthur, one of the men must ride over for Dr. Grieve, and then as soon as her room is ready we must get her to bed. Whoever she is she will have to stay the night here.”
“Certainly!” Sir Arthur acquiesced warmly. “I will send James off at once.”
“Oh, yes. Poor girl!” Lady Laura assented, with a little reserve. “She must be staying at one of the houses round here, but I cannot imagine what has happened to her. However, no doubt Dr. Grieve will be able to enlighten us. She is very pretty, Arthur.”
“One of the most beautiful women I ever saw in my life,” Sir Arthur agreed warmly.
Lady Laura looked doubtful.
“One can hardly judge of that to-night, I think. Does she remind you of anyone, Arthur?”
“Certainly not!” Hargreave’s tone was decisive. “I have never seen anyone in the least like her before.”
“When she looked at me I could not help fancying that I saw a faint resemblance to some one, but I cannot place it just now,” Lady Laura went on musingly as they turned back.
Suddenly the deep-fringed eyelids were raised.
“How very—very kind you all are to me!” the girl murmured glancing round the little group, her eyes resting for one second on Sir Arthur’s troubled face. “So very, very kind!”
