The Diamond Waterfall (31 page)

“Your mother?” he asked gently. “Yes.”

He said, “I didn't ask you before—doing that. It's just in every way the best, and only thing to do …”

She sat without moving. The tears still ran.

“Alice,” he began. His own voice did not sound too certain. “We've always been able to help each other, haven't we?”

“Yes.” (How true that was, how true …)

“I've thought, really thought, many, many times, that perhaps we should —help each other—
always.”

She didn't answer. Couldn't answer …

He said, “Do you know what I mean—what it is I'm trying to say?”

“No,” she said, at that moment beginning to understand.

“There isn't any way in which I can actually say it—without its being either an impertinence, or a cause of distress, or both. The truth is I can't consider myself suitable. The kind of future I have to offer is so much less than you deserve. The life you lead here—”

She interrupted, “I don't care for it at all.”

He said in a rush, his voice louder now, “That encourages me to go on…. Alice,
will you marry me?”

The walls seemed suddenly to close in on her, the fire to seem unnaturally bright.

Married. But I was never to be married….

She burst out, “And be like those photographs …”

He knelt down, took both her hands, cold hands, and held them tight. Kissed her hair, all around her forehead. “Alice, darling Alice, that's not being married.
That's
not being married.”

“Gib,” she said, “Gib …” Her forehead was against his waistcoat, touched the cold metal of his watch chain. His hands held her head firmly. Safe …

“I would,” she said, a moment later. “I think I would.”

His face was alight. It wore the expression, the relief, the happiness, as when those years ago she had said to him, “Yes, I will eat.”

“Yes,” she said, “I will marry you.”

They sat on together, talking almost in their old easy way. Plans, arrangements, ideas. Of course it could not be for a while, the marriage. It might even be several years. He would need money: no question of his living on hers. Her father was not mentioned—not yet. But she knew, and he knew, that approval, although possible, was not probable. It might take much time to persuade him.

But, she thought, wouldn't that perhaps be best of all? It didn't have to be tomorrow, next week, next year, even the year after. … It would be their secret. The most precious they had ever had: that they were, one day, to
be together for always. Now, she did not have to imagine any more a life without Gib.

A day that had begun so badly, ending so joyfully. Christmas 1912. I shall always remember Christmas 1912.

Christmas 1912, Hal thought, I shall
never
forget Christmas 1912. The most terrible, terrible of my life.

On Christmas Eve he had been in the afternoon to a carol service, in which Stephen had been singing. Olive and her mother had been among the congregation. He had caught Olive's eye, and had quickly pulled a face at her, a horrible contortion, and seen her mouth work as she tried to suppress laughter. Mrs. Ibbotson, who looked tired and ill, had noticed nothing.

It was later in the afternoon, just after tea, that everything began to go wrong. The atmosphere that he so loved of Christmas had been growing around him all day. Today so lovely because it was anticipation of tomorrow that would be lovelier still.

His biggest present was to be a Mamood steamroller. He had longed and longed for one—and knew he would get it. They thought they kept it secret, but Gib had let something slip. So had Mother.

Cousin Dorothy, who had arrived yesterday, had brought her best friend with her. They were to stay till the New Year. Great-aunt Minnie was here also, and of course Uncle Lionel. Mother and Alice were busy entertaining them.

After tea he had gone up to his room and worked on the rat-trap he was making to his own design. Teddy and Sylvia, he knew, were down in the drawing room. Each had a song or dance that they would be performing for Cousin Dorothy and the others.

There was a knock on the door. Before he could answer Teddy burst in.

“I say,” he protested, “you don't barge in like that—”

“Mummy wants to speak to you. At once. Downstairs.”

He stood with his hands in his pockets. His mother looked very grave:

“Hal,” she began, “this is very difficult. I think”—she hesitated—“perhaps we should wait a few moments. Your father will be with us.”

At once he thought, What have I done?
What have I done?
He ran over in his mind, with alarm, all the misdemeanors, deceits, that might have been discovered. The time he'd overstayed at the farm and kept Gib waiting for a lesson. (But Gib would never …) The two panes of glass in one of the greenhouses which he'd broken and just plain forgotten to own up to, the result of carelessly thrown wizened apples, gathered up as he walked.

Mother, while she waited, seemed to need to keep the conversation going. She said brightly:

“Well, darling, do you think Father Christmas is going to send you your heart's desire?”

It seemed to him a babyish way of talking. And too, he was worried. “I suppose so,” he said ungraciously. “I hope so.”

But here was his father.

“Your hands out of your pockets, sir!” Grim expression, set face. Clearing his throat.

He began to speak.

The words rolled over Hal. “Your cousin had wanted her friend to visit the Stones Room—or rather, as we conversed … I have to say that …” The words seemed to be being weighed. “I have to say that … I can hardly bring myself … in four of the cabinets, a not inconsiderable number of stones … missing. Together with several not particularly distinctive pieces of jewelry.”

Silence. I cannot think, Hal told himself, I cannot think that it is possibly anything to do with me.

But he knew, even as he thought this, what was to come.

“Hal.
Henry,
“began his father. To stress the gravity of it all, perhaps, he called him Henry.

“Henry, I have to ask you, at this stage, on your honor, if you know anything,
anything at all,
that could help us concerning this”—pause—
“very
serious theft?”

Silence again. Seeming to Hal even longer this time. His father's stomach, as he stood before the fire, gurgled. The sound seemed magnified.

“No, sir. Daddy. No. I don't.”
He knew what was to come.

His father cleared his throat again. “Hal, we have known about this for only a few hours or so. There is as yet no question of the police. Your mother and I, and Alice, have already spoken together. The whereabouts of the keys are by no means common knowledge. I repeat,
not
common knowledge. I have to say that I would have preferred you not to know—the more so, in the present circumstances. But Alice tells me, and Gib Nicolson admits that, foolishly I must say, you and … a friend were present when he fetched the keys a few days ago.”

Why not say it at once?
Why this long, long story?

“Henry, the person who has helped himself to these is someone in need of money. Is also, I need hardly add, a thief.”

His mother spoke in the pause that followed. “You know we're speaking of the Ibbotson boy?”

“And,” went on his father, “what was he
doing
in the first place, a boy like that, in the Stones Room?”

Hal said, looking down at the carpet, “He just”—he couldn't find the words—“likes beautiful things.”

“Perhaps he does a little more than like them?”

When Hal said nothing, he went on, “Someone who knows where the keys are kept has helped himself. Someone frequently—too frequently—
around at The Towers would not be noticed walking about—even without you. Am I right?” He altered slightly his stance before the fire.

“The jewelry could possibly be traced, identified by description. The stones, not.”

Hal began to feel sick. He turned toward his mother, and perhaps from nerves spoke directly to her:

“I can tell you, Mummy—he, Stephen, hasn't stolen
anything.”

His father protested, “Henry—this was not a break-in. There are no signs of damage. This was a theft by one who knows the house. There is of course always a chance, unlikely, that among the staff someone has stumbled upon the whereabouts of the keys—their hiding place. The odds are against it.” He paused. “Some people might say,
have
said, that I should take such a matter a great deal more seriously, that it should be more of an orthodox strong room, perhaps even a night watchman. If indeed the Diamond Waterfall and other lesser but very valuable jewelry were kept there, it would be a different matter. No, the stones are not of sentimental value. They are insured. But the matter can hardly end there. Nor would the insurance company permit it.”

He saw his father look at his mother. She looked away as he went on: “What I have to say you may find unpleasant, but I am going to suggest,
ask,
that as soon as possible you visit your friend—who, remember, has been given, foolishly in my judgment, entry through the front door, the run of the house. You must visit him, and ask him, as
one friend to another,
if—if it is he, the thief. In that case, if he owns up like a man (and the goods are immediately returned), no more will be heard of it. Otherwise, it's a matter for the police.”

He saw his mother nod, at the same time frowning. Perhaps, could he hope that she realized how impossible, horrible,
degrading
such a task would be?

“I think you will agree that in the circumstances this is a more than generous offer?”

Hal said, in an angry voice:

“But he didn't
do it
He hasn't done it—sir.”

He said it again a moment later, appealing to his mother: “But … but …” His voice, which nowadays he could not trust, plunged downward and then rose again.
“Stephen hasn't done it!”

His mother looked at him. She said gently:

“Well,
he
can tell you that, can't he?”

He didn't know whether he was supposed to go over to the farm that day. Plainly it wasn't possible. But how could they expect him to live through Christmas? Later that evening his mother hugged him and said impulsively:

“I know—how you're feeling, darling. But”—she half smiled—“it'll be all right, truly.”

What made them think it would be all right? How could it be all right to have to ask Stephen something like that? Why could not
they
do it?

He didn't see Gib and was glad because he would not have liked to discuss it with him at all. Alice said only, “I know about it and it's very unpleasant. But it will have to be done.”

On Christmas morning, straight after church, he was driven over in the motorcar.

Of course they were surprised to see him. He thought afterward that he ought to have brought presents. Except, how could he? He wanted only to die, standing there, saying:

“Could I have a word with Stephen—alone, please?”

He didn't know how to say it. Although he must have rehearsed it twenty times. The words were jumbled together—but the sense must have been plain enough. He ended up lamely: “They made me come and ask you. … I have to tell them, that I've asked you.”

Stephen had gone very white. “Bye!” he exclaimed. “Bye. Buggers all, aren't ye? If there's dirty work to be done, let 'em come up this way and do it —and not send the likes of ye.”

Hal said in a tight voice, “What am I to tell them? I mean,
I know—”

Stephen interrupted: “Mebbe. And mebbe not—eh? Any road, the words —they've been said. They're said now.”

“What words?”

He saw himself again as at Jack's death. Why can't I do it right? he cried inside. Why can't I do it right? “That I'm reckoned a thief.”

“I never said that—”

“I'm deaf, then. And a dunderhead and all. Not just a thief.”

Hal said despairingly, “They sent me up. I had no choice.” (But he had.
He had. He could have refused to come.)

“I'll go back and say what I knew all along—”

Stephen said abruptly, “Aye, go back. And when you're back—stay back.” His face was pinched with anger. He turned at once and went into the farmhouse.

There was nothing to be gained by trying to go in there, trying to say anything further. I have made a mess of it—an impossible task. He felt a great wave of hatred toward
them,
those who sat on high and gave orders.
I should have refused,
he thought.

As they drove off, he saw Olive's face framed at the window. Olive who was always curious.

His father said, “He denies it, then?”

Hal said, “Of course he does—because he didn't do it.”

His father said gravely, “I am afraid I can hardly agree. He has—lost his chance. We shall have to proceed. After that, the matter will be out of my hands. And yours.”

Oh, Hal thought, but it is already out of mine. He wanted yesterday again, so that he could do it right. So that he could refuse, so that even if he approached Stephen it would be as someone on
his
side.

The meal was a misery. It tasted of dust. He could not find the saliva to chew it. The younger children knew nothing of the upset and were loud and overexcitable, especially the twelve-year-old Teddy. Father was even sharper with her than usual and she burst into angry tears. Nan-Nan had to deal with her upstairs. She came down, chastened, for the present-giving.

There was his Mamood steamroller. Large, gleaming. His heart's desire. Except that he no longer wanted it. How could he ever have wanted it? He thought of refusing it, to make up for what he should have refused yesterday. But where would that get him, or Stephen? He said only, rather ungraciously: