The Diamond Waterfall (29 page)

Stephen had been to The Towers once before (not counting his stolen visit). Last summer, dressed formally with a stiff collar and a derby, to a tea party held for all the villagers and tenants of surrounding farms. They had sat at long tables outside, while their hosts watched the sky anxiously. Recitations, singing, some dancing. The local brass band in which James played cornet.

Today the first thing that went wrong was that as they came up by the summer house, who should be in it but Teddy and Amy, dressed in ridiculous kimonos. He
ought
to have paid no attention, but of course had to call out:

“Just look at that.”

And Teddy at once:
“You
aren't invited, you know.” They giggled. Both of them, quite horribly. Amy said:

“It's a Japanese tea party, by the way. You can come if you want.” They had stupid little flowered cups and were sitting on the floor.

“I say, that's awfully civil of you,” he said in a mocking voice. Then added, “I wouldn't want to go to anything so piffling, thank you.”

He was ashamed in front of Stephen, who was looking at them with wry amazement. It was not at all like the home life of the Ibbotsons.

But when he'd walked Stephen about a little, he began to loathe that very difference. The natural authority Stephen had in his own home, around the farm, when he took them fishing, rabbiting—where was it? Here he looked awkward. Hal had heard it explained that people like Stephen used the back door rather than the front: “… because, Hal, they wouldn't feel comfortable. It's important to make people feel at their ease. A gentleman, or a lady for that matter, does so instinctively.”

Perhaps Stephen was thinking of just such matters, for he said as they went downstairs into the main hall, after Hal had shown him his bedroom:

“Reckon when Jack's been at that school awhiles, he'll not care so much for days at t'farm and the like.” He said it easily, though, as a fact, rather than a sadness.

Hal knew it to be true and denied it at once. “Of course he will. Specially now we're brothers.”

“That”
Stephen's voice was scornful.

“Well, it was his idea, after all. And a jolly one too.”

He tried to think, after they'd been to the kitchens and begged some scones and butter, of some treat to offer Stephen, who had politely but not very enthusiastically looked at everything—and who said now, amiably enough, amused almost:

“There's room enough here, and food too, I reckon…. You could bed and board every beggar for miles about and not be tight.”

“Daft beggars?”

Stephen looked puzzled.

“Joke,” Hal said. “You're always saying ‘daft beggars.' So, I'm just jolly well asking—”

“Them
daft beggars, they're not beggars, they're buggers, you daft beggar. It's just, I've not to use that word.”

“I don't know what it means.”

“Aye, well, don't ask me about it.” He grinned suddenly. “Ye ken when sheep—I reckon it's best not spoken of—but sometimes ye see them, like— they …”

Hal wasn't sure if he understood the explanation. A moment later, Stephen, standing at the bottom of the stairs, asked, “Who's that?” pointing to the large oil painting halfway up.

“That's Alice's mother. The Lady Firth who died. She's wearing the Diamond Waterfall—”

“Bye, hell!” He went up and looked closer. “I like that. Aye, it's grand, that. Shines like a real waterfall.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Bye …”

It was at that moment Hal had the idea. Maybe … ? He said, “There's
masses
of other jewelry. Stones, things like that—my father, my grandfather—there's this big collection. Shall we?”

“I'd mebbe heard tell. I don't rightly recall …”

“If you'd like. I'll have to see—because of getting it opened.” He didn't want to ask his parents, and didn't know where they were. He had to find Alice. She was allowed in there and would perhaps take them around. He suddenly wanted, desperately, to show Stephen.

Alice was with Fräulein. It took only five minutes to find her. She had a hat and gloves on:

“Oh, but Hal dear, I can't stay. Mr. Nicolson and I are just going on an errand for his father.” She thought for a moment. “Dear Fräulein,
she
could take you round.”

Hal was not too pleased at this idea. There was something damping about Fräulein. Her heavy soggy presence. Although she surely didn't spy for the grown-ups, he would feel that he couldn't be natural with Stephen.

Alice went off with her to fetch the keys, for Fräulein didn't know where they were kept (nor did he, for that matter).

Stephen began, “I'd not have agreed on it, if I'd known there'd be such a—”

“No. No,” Hal said, “I
want
to show you them.”

He was glad he'd persisted when he saw Stephen's wonderment and admiration and, he thought as well, pleasure. He wished then he knew more about the different stones, that he'd bothered to listen when Alice or Mother had talked, explained.

Emeralds, rubies, topaz, tourmaline, opals, aquamarines, amethysts, sapphires, pearls—on and on and on, as the iron shutters were unclasped from each case. The afternoon sun streaming into the room caught here and there the colors …

“Bye …” Stephen said, and then again as if he'd been holding his breath. “Bye … they're really summat.” His hand went out toward a cluster of fire opals, lying on their velvet bed.

“Not”
Fräulein spoke sharply. “We are not to touch. And—
ach”—
she looked down—“those hands …”

They weren't that dirty, Hal thought angrily, looking at his own, which he'd kept in his pockets till then. Sunburned, working hands, Stephen's were, but even as he thought this, Stephen hid them—cheerfully, but not looking at the governess. Hal wanted to shake her great fat face. She said now:

“This boy, he is so fortunate that he may look. Enough—
Ja?”
Her voice was soft again.

“Bye, though—they'll be … What's the money in that lot, then?” Fräulein interrupted, mildly this time, “We are not speaking of this. Please.”

Hal said, grumbling, “Everything my
friend
does is wrong.”

She didn't answer, but wore her foolish face suddenly. He decided to ignore her.

“They're just stones,” he said to Stephen, “examples really, because my father and grandfather liked to look at them. The real stuffs the jewelry. That's—well, if you saw
that …”

Stephen grinned good-naturedly. “Aye. I don't doubt …” He looked over at the last case, which Fräulein Schultz was about to cover. “Our Will'd've said summat …” He was frowning now. “So few wi' so much, and so many wi' nowt—he'd not think it right. But …” He hesitated. “If we'd a different world—that's what Will did his reading about, and all …”

Fräulein was looking impatient. Hal said (spiritedly), “My father gives away a
lot
of money, so that people shouldn't be hungry. He says it's his duty. Charity, that's what. It makes the world go round, he says.”

“Charity”
Stephen said. “Bugger charity.” But he said it cheerfully enough. Fräulein must have been pretending not to hear, or perhaps better still, didn't understand.

“Bugger charity,” Hal replied, to join in the mood.

Most of the time Stephen wasn't argumentative, didn't echo half-remembered sayings of Will, and was just Hal's easygoing friend. With Jack as a third, life was near to perfection: the friend he'd grown up with, and the friend he'd acquired by himself and now shared—someone in whose world he felt really at home. Stephen knows that, he would tell himself sometimes. Although he'd never say it to me, he knows that when I'm at the farm, I'm part of the life. It's always “Master Hawksworth” when Jack goes up there—but for me all that stopped long ago. Unless they've a visitor it's Hal always, or “Mister Hal” if they're mocking. Granny Willan calls me that.

The summer wore on. August now, and still it was hot. Toward the end of the month, the Hawksworths were to go to Scarborough for three weeks; he was invited as a companion for Jack. After that it would be nearly time for Jack to go to Harrow. These last weeks Jack seemed to have rather gone off the idea. He'd stopped reading school stories. Now, perhaps to get as far away as possible, it was all the Indian Mutiny.

Because of the dry weather, the fishing was not good. Earlier in the summer the Ibbotsons had been worried that the drought would affect milk for the lambs; soon now they would be weaned. Then in September there would be the Sheep Fair. Hal loved it when there was talk, and worries, and
plans made which
he
could feel part of. Twice recently Mr. Ibbotson had said, “Well, what do you think on it then, Hal lad? What's best to do, eh?” Mrs. Ibbotson had whole days now when she looked as if she kept her head on her neck only with effort. “Mother's not herself today,” Mr. Ibbotson would say then, and Hal would know they were all thinking about Will.

The week before going to Scarborough, there were two days of rain. Jack and Hal, with their fishing rods, got lifts up to the farm and permission to stay out till dusk, since the trout might not rise till late.

From the beginning, the day went well, although Hal had to admit Jack was in a rather annoying mood. Not that Stephen minded. “What's he on about?” was the most he said when Jack, full of
Barclay of the Guides,
which he'd just finished reading, began all his remarks with “By the beard of the Prophet …”

They had climbed quite a way up the dale when they stopped to eat their food. They were going to explore wherever Stephen led them, then stop for fishing on the way back down. The weather, with sun again after rain, did not seem too hot for exertion.

“Malus, pejor,”
said Jack. “Every crumb of cake is finished. Salaam, O Ibbotson Sahib—let's have a bit of
your
grub.” When Stephen obliged, passing him a chunk of spice bread, he said, “I thank thee, Dinga Ghosh, and be sure that my father will reward thee when he comes back—”

“Where's he gone?” asked Hal.

“Pig of a Purbiya, do you insult me by asking? In fact, you duffer, he's gone shooting. And I daresay I could have gone too.” He added, “I'll probably get a gun at Christmas.”

And how different it all might be by then, Hal thought. Jack home from Harrow, happy or unhappy, would be another person. No amount of talk of Three Musketeers and blood brothers could alter that,

“Verily, O verily this bread is made by Missy Sahib,” Jack said, licking the ends of his fingers. “And jolly good too—”

“He means our Olive,” said Stephen, giving Hal a wink. “You're a right chatterwallet and all today, Jack.” He emptied some beer dregs onto a clump of moss. They frothed quietly. Then: “We'd best be away—if we're to see all I've reckoned on showing you.”

The sun beat down as they crossed Wadsworth Bridge. For a while they were on open moorland. In the distance the ling-covered fells were blue-purple. They went down again, back toward the river, narrowed now to a stream. With the sudden rain, the waters had swollen, and as they crossed the stream by the stones, some greasy with damp, Jack wobbled deliberately from side to side, rod slung across his back, bag with tackle and remains of lunch. “By Allah, the Feringhis pursue me—let them be ground between the upper and nether millstone.” He righted himself with agility. “The
dogs.”

Hal said, “You do talk the most appalling rot. Chuck it, can't you?” He
had begun to feel irritated, especially as he hadn't read the book. He knew too that if
he'd
wanted to imitate that sort of talk, he'd have done it much better. Jack being a Muhammadan sounded exactly like—Jack.

“We tak forward path now,” Stephen told them, when all three had reached the other side. They made their way up, and gradually the rocky bank by the water grew steeper and steeper. Here and there a tree grew out of the crag. Between the rocks coarse grass grew, and near where they walked Hal caught the smell of wild garlic. Stephen said, “We call it Jack-by-the-hedge.” He looked over his shoulder, “Hear that, Jack lad? A right stink, and it's after you they call it.”

They could hear the beck rushing below. But ahead of them the bank curved, and the trees and foliage at first hid what Hal was certain he could hear—a waterfall. Then they came upon it. Stephen stopped.

“Harkersgill Force, that is. Reckon you didn't know it. It'll be well hidden and all.”

The water tumbled down the rocky face, white foam to a brown pool some thirty feet below. A fine spray misted the air around. A rowan tree grew in the rock, its berries almost ripe. Hal's boots slid on the shale, where the velvety reddish moss grew. He could see pink flowers and, dangerously out of reach, forget-me-nots.

“Mind your step, then,” Stephen said. “And you, Jack.”

Jack came up behind them. “Salaam, hazur, I am here! What is this boiling ravine that yawns beneath us? Move, son of a dog, that I may see…”

He stepped in front of Stephen, went right past him. His arm went up: “The battle cry—Din! Din—”

His foot slipped. His arm, wildly, reached out to save himself. Caught and lost the branch of the rowan tree. He gave a sort of strangled cry as he fell.

For a couple of seconds, as if blinded, Hal could see nothing. Then it became clear. Jack, head down in the pool, body sprawling awkwardly across a rock. Stephen, white in the face, his mouth working, pulled Hal back.

“Ruddy hell—Ruddy hell.”

“Stephen, what do we do?” His voice came out in a frightened scream.

“I'll get missen down there. Stay put.” As Stephen made his way to Jack, scrambling down the steep side of the bank, slipping and slithering, Hal tried to follow. Bewildered and frightened, he followed the path to where descent was easier. By the time he reached Stephen, he was sobbing uncontrollably.