Deveril's Diamond. A novel

Front matter

A NOVEL BY ADELINE SERGEANT AUTHOR OF " JACOBI'S WIFE," "NO SAINT," " AN OPEN FOE," " BEYOND RECALL,' etc., etc. IN THREE VOLUMES VOL. Ill LONDON HURST AND BLACKETT, LIMITED i3; GREAT MARLBOROUGI1 STREET 1889 All Rights Reserved PRINTED liY TILLOTSON AND SON, MAWDSLEY STREET EOLTON CONTENTS OK THE THIRD VOLUME. CHAPTER page I. — THE JEWEL BOX' I ii. — philip's discovery 22 III. — A LINK IN THE CHAIN 42 IV. — "a merry christmas" 60 V. — THE SEARCH FOR THE DIAMOND 80 VI. — ONLY A TRAMP 98 VII. — ANTHONY LORRAINE Il8 VIII. — CARNFORTH'S iTORY 141 IX. — HER FAREWELL - 174 X. — AT HENSLEY'S HOTEL 191 XI. — PAULINE AND ELEANOR - CONTENTS OF THE THIRD VOLUME. CHAPTER PAGE XII. — A LAST REVENGE 229 XIII. — WHAT CICELY SAID 248 XIV. — THE LAST OF THE DIAMOND - - . - 26l

Chapter I. The Jewel-box

It was close upon Christmas time. The crisp coating of snow upon the ground sparkled in a flood of sunlight ; every twig of the hedges seemed crystallised, every withered brown leaf was edged and veined with a delicate tracery of hoar - frost. The streams were frozen over, and there was no sign as yet of any thaw, although the sun shone with a steady radiance which would speedily be the undoing of Jack Frost's elfish handiwork. The scene was one of such singular beauty that Eleanor Lorraine had been tempted VOL. III. B out of the warm rooms that she loved, and, wrapped in furs, was walking round the old Grange garden, admiring the clipped hedges and fantastically - trimmed yew trees, the quaintness of which was doubly noticeable against the background of pure white snow. She stopped once or twice to shake a mass of snow off the tail of some tree-peacock over laden with the weight.

She broke the ice in the grey stone basin, so that the birds might drink the dark water underneath. She picked up a little half - starved kitten, which ran towards her mewings, and cradled it in her o' soft warm furs. A stranger might have said that there was a half-regretful tenderness in the way in which she performed these offices ; a lingering look in her eyes, a wistful gravity about her mouth, as of one who looks on well-loved objects for almost the last time. Did she love the place ? Yet she had said once that the Grange was melancholy and depressing. She had thought, even more strongly than she said, that she could never hate any house so keenly as the one which had been the scene of her married life with Philip. As she walked towards the house she saw him coming to meet her. How grave he looked, she thought — and yet how kind, how noble !

She had said once — she was in the mood for remembering these old fancies— that Philip Lorraine had a bourgeois air. She scorned herself for her own want of discrimi nation. She had then compared him with Anthony Lorraine — the upright, gallant-looking, white - haired old man, the veritable pere noble of comedy — and had undervalued Philip's more thoughtful bearing and intel lectual features. Did she not know better now ? But Philip would never guess the change. She made a pretty picture herself as she came to meet him. She was in mourning, but the rich and sombre tints of the sables that she wore suited the delicacy of her com plexion, with its unusual glow of colour given by the healthful wintry air. She had fastened a cluster of scarlet berries into the knot of black lace at her throat ; the little head of the black kitten rubbed itself rest lessly against her furs, and its green eyes blinked at Philip as he approached.

In spite of herself, Eleanor could not help a smile when he held out his hand to stroke the little creature, and it began to parade up and down her muff, and from her arm to his shoulder. " It is half-starved," she said. " I found it in the shrubbery. I want some milk for it." "You have found a kitten; I have found something else," said Philip, lightly. " Ex cuse me for interfering. I discovered a village boy hanging about the place with a note for you, which he seemed to wish to put into your own hands. I said that I would deliver the communication." He offered her a common-lookine missive, rather like a tradesman's communication in appearance. Eleanor held out her hand for it hastily. She did not even thank him ; she looked frightened. But Philip did not show that he observed anything unusual in her demeanour, unless his studied avoidance of her eye betrayed some consciousness of her embarrassment.

He said quite easily and pleasantly — " Shall I take this poor little cat to the kitchen for you ? Its bones are nearly out of its skin, I think." He moved away, with the kitten on his arm. Eleanor watched him out of sight. She drew a long sigh. " Kind to everything and everybody but me !" she murmured, jealously. Then she turned her back ab ruptly to the house, walked down one of the yew-hedged paths, and tore open her letter. She had not expected it, and yet she knew instinctively whence it came. Clifford had written to her several times by post since Philip had passed him in the road without speaking, and he had said in his last letter — " I want to see you soon. When I come down to Ladywell I will let you know, and we must arrange a meeting. If I come sud denly, I will send word by a messenger ; so be prepared."

He had ventured to say so much in a letter, because she had told him that Philip never interfered with her corres pondence. But something in the confidential tone of his words jarred upon her, and she had not answered the letter. Clifford wrote now from the village inn. " Dear Nell," he began, " I am pining for a sight of you. Where can you be seen ? This is scarcely weather in which you are likely to be walking, or I might waylay you on the Meriton Road this afternoon. I suppose I must not beard the lion in his den ? — that is to say, walk straight up to the front door and ask for Lady Eleanor ? — Yours devotedly — "C. V." Eleanor hid the letter in her hand. Her husband's steps were crushing the crisp snow upon the walk behind her. He overtook her, and walked for a moment or two by her side.

"Did you take the kitten indoors?" she asked, with a visible effort. " The kitten ? Oh, yes. It belonged to one of the servants." Philip's thoughts had evidently been far away, but they came back to her with his eyes, which returned from the tops of the fir trees to the fair girl at his side with an expression of gentle thoughtful ness. " I wanted to say to you, Eleanor," he continued, " that your cousin Clifford has no need to seek underhand methods of communication with you. He is quite at liberty to write to you in an ordinary manner, or to see you — if you want him to see you, or write to you." " Who told you that he sought underhand means ?" said Eleanor, turning crimson with anger and shame. " Your letter came from him," said Philip, quietly. " Do you think Clifford's messenger would hold his tongue when I asked him a question ?

I assure you, Eleanor, I did so carelessly enough, but when I heard the answer, and knew that he chose to send you letters by underhand means, I felt that I had a right to object." " You can see the letter if you like." "No, thanks ; I have not the faintest desire to see it. You are quite free to write to your cousin as much as you please. My quarrels are, I suppose, not yours." He said the last words slowly, and looked away. "Is there anything that you would like — anything that you want done, Eleanor ?" he then asked with careful kindliness. If she wanted to see Clifford — he thought she would under stand what he meant — he would even yield the point about Clifford's coming to the house, provided that he saw nothing of the young man. It could not be expected that he should meet Vargrave on friendly terms, although he would not attempt to separate Eleanor from her cousin.

If she said that she wished to see Clifford again he would give way. But Eleanor was afraid to speak. She merely shook her head, and did not raise her eyes. Her face was haughty and displeased. Philip, seeing that she did not mean to answer him, lifted his hat ceremoniously and left her. When she was alone, her heart misgave her ; she wished that she had spoken. But it was too late now to call him back. Clifford Vargrave was walking at a brisk pace down the Meriton Road about half-past two o'clock that afternoon, when he saw before him the slight, black figure which he had hoped to meet. In a few minutes he had overtaken her. They shook hands, exchang ing civilities after the fashion of acquain tances who meet in the road by chance, then walked on side by side. The Meriton Road was one which ran out of the village of Lady well in an opposite direction from that of the railway station and the now notorious Brale Wood.

Thither Eleanor never walked very willingly now - a - days ; but Meriton Road, from which a lane diverged to the church, was a favourite haunt of hers. 'Why did you want to see me?" she asked, and from her tone Clifford knew that she was in no very compliant mood. He answered needfully. "For one thing, Nell, I felt that I must know why you had written to my sisters about a house. Was it for yourself?" " Yes ; don't talk of it," she said, shortly. " But I must talk of it, dear. You are going to leave Lorraine in January?" " I suppose so." " And you mean to settle in a small house near London all by yourself?" " I suppose so." Clifford looked at her. The dull sound of her voice, expressive either of resignation or of despair, amazed him. " My dear child," he said, drawing her hand through his arm — for they were walking along a quiet part of the road where they could not possibly be observed — " you have been very unhappy."

" I am very unhappy now," said Eleanor. " It won't be for long, Nell. When you have once made the plunge — once separated yourself from a man who has never loved you and whom you have never loved " "You are quite wrong," cried Eleanor, with a passionate sob. She withdrew her hand from his arm, and stood still for a moment in the middle of the road, then walked on swiftly. " You are quite wrong," she repeated, but she did not tell him how. Clifford was too crafty to pursue the subject. He was sure that he should find her in a more tractable mood another time. He told her, instead, of his own troubles and difficulties ; explained to her with great sadness of tone and manner that he was staying in England only for the end of Giles Kinglake's trial. When that was over he should go away, he knew not whither, and never return to England again.

He was weary of England, he said ; weary of the strife and struggle for existence which was meant by life in England. He thought that he should seek out some beautiful retreat upon the shores of the blue Mediterranean, and try to forget the sorrows and disappoint ments which had wrecked his life and left him a broken-hearted man. Lady Eleanor listened, sympathised, even wept a little over the recital of Clifford's woes ; and yet he had not touched her in the way that he used to do. She was abstracted at times ; she did not always catch the point of what he was saying. He sailed to bring the colour to her fair, serious cheek by his allusions to the past. She forgot to be self-conscious in his presence ; she was as simple and sweet as she had been in the days when he had tried to comfort her.

He became irritated at last by her insensi bility, but he tried to control his impatience. Eleanor would not always be unlike herself; she would respond better in time. Towards the close of their walk he asked her whether Philip were at home. " No," she answered. " He has gone to London. He will not be at home until quite late to-night — although it is Christmas Eve ; perhaps not until to-morrow." "And you will be left alone? Would he be very angry with you if I came to see you, Eleanor ?" " He is never angry with me," said Eleanor, hastily. " Never ? Then I may come ? You won't be angry with me, Nell." "But, Clifford — you would not care to enter his house now ?" " Only for your sake, Eleanor. For some unknown reason he is not my friend now. But for your sake I forget my just offence." Eleanor's eyes glistened.

"Ah! that is good of you," she said, simply. And she gave him her hand as though to thank him for a favour bestowed upon her. " I under stand." She went away without giving him per mission to visit her. But he thought himself quite justified in taking it for granted. Eleanor dined alone, and then drank her coffee in her own sitting-room in the little wing of the house that had been specially appropriated to her use. She still took a great pleasure in the changes which she had made there ; in the peacock-hues, the dull reds and golds, with which she had re-decorated its walls, the various curiosities and objets a1 art with which she had tried to make it beautiful. Yet more than once she caught herself thinking with some regret of the panelled room with low ceiling and diamond - paned windows, where Philip's mother had loved to sit ; she wished she had not disparaged it in his hearing, nor sought to make another bower for herself.

" What will he do with all these things when I am gone ?" she said, looking round at her art collection with more distaste than interest. " Keep them here, I wonder, or send them after me ? Will he ever sit here and think of me ? Ah, no ; he prefers his study or his mother's room. And yet — last month — I thought that he cared for me ; but I must have been mistaken. I have seen nothing of it since." Then she felt that the tears were wet upon her cheeks, and she bent her face upon her hands. " Oh ! Philip," she mur mured, sobbing quietly to herself, " I cannot go away. Indeed — indeed — I love you now." A sudden, slight tap at the window made her start up nervously. She listened; the tap was not repeated, but she heard a few bars of a song which Clifford used to sing to her before her marriage.

Was it Clifford, then, who was outside her window, waiting like a troubadour until she looked out or undid the door ? The notion made Lady Eleanor angry. She struck her little foot impatiently on the ground and muttered an irritable word below her breath. Then she went to the window, which was still unshuttered, and looked out. But she could see nothing, for the sky had clouded over since the afternoon, and snow flakes were falling noiselessly against the windows. She listened, but all was still. Presently, however, she dimly distinguished the dark figure of a man moving across the vista of distant whiteness, and then she heard the refrain that she knew so well " My darling is so fair." Yes, it was certainly Clifford's voice. For some reason or other Lady Eleanor's hands trembled and turned cold as she let the curtain fall again and walked to the door of the room.

Should she let her cousin in or not ? There was a cloor into the garden in this part of the house, and she could easily admit him, have a little chat with him, and send him away again without the knowledge of anyone else in the house. She remembered that Philip had declared that Clifford should never enter his house again ; and, although she thought this decision cruel and unjust, she had no wish to disobey her husband's orders. He had certainly told the butler not to admit Mr. Vargrave — she knew so much. And, therefore, she felt that it would be an insult to Philip to invite her cousin secretly to the house, as Clifford had tried to per suade her to do. For that reason she had avoided answering him that afternoon. But now he was here — and the snow was falling — even Philip would surely not wish her to keep him out !

Yet it was with cold, trembling hands and a very doubtful heart that she went into the passage and unbolted the garden door. "Clifford," she said, softly, "are you there ?" He came towards her from the darkness and the blinding snow, holding out his hands. But she drew back. " You should not have come," she said. " Philip would not like it." " I could not keep away, Eleanor. She looked at him with a sort of surprise in her great dark eyes. "Go back," she said, gently; "go home and change your clothes, Clifford ; you will be ill. It is so wet and cold." " Let me come in and warm myself at vour sitting-room fire, then, for a few minutes, Nell. I have to go back to London to morrow morning, and I have something to ask you first." She yielded, and let him pass. He entered the room and stood before the fire ; his ulster was powdered with the snowflakes, his hair and hands were wet with melted snow.

"You are very cold and wet," said Lady Eleanor, touching the sleeve of his ulster with the tips of her fingers. "You should have taken this off outside." " May I ?" " For a few minutes." And as he suited the action to the word, she added, briefly, " You must have been very cold out there ?" "Very cold, Nell, and very sad at heart. You never walked in the darkness, with the snow whirling in your face, and the wind cutting you like a knife, knowing that your loved ones were sitting in the house, by warm fires, in the light and brightness of their homes, and you wandering outside, pausing underneath their windows, wondering whether they ever thought of you — which things, Nell, are an allegory of your life and mine." " But you are always at liberty to go home and be dry and warm too," said Lady Eleanor, with a provoking little smile.

" You are not compelled to wander about underneath my windows." " Yes, I am. You compel me," said Clif ford, gloomily. She was silent. Something in the pose of her dainty head told him that she had not liked his speech. He changed his tone. " As I am here, and may not see you again for some time, I may as well relieve you of that little packet which I confided to your care, Nell. You have kept it safe ?" " Quite safe," said Eleanor, relieved at the change of subject, and looking up with a bright face. " Do you want it now ? I vol. in. c think it is in my case — but really I am not sure." " If you have it by you," said Clifford, in differently. But his heart beat fast. It was for this purpose that he had come. Suppose she had mislaid "the little packet," of which he spoke so carelessly! His blood ran cold to hear her talk.

"I brought my little jewel-case down here," said Eleanor, moving towards an escritoire which contained a large, deep drawer. " I will look. If it is not here, it will be in my dressing-room upstairs." Clifford waited patiently. She brought out a bunch of keys, and fitted one into the lock of the drawer. It would not turn. Then another had to be found. Some little time passed before the drawer itself was opened. Then a similar process was gone through with the little inlaid box which was produced, for Lady Eleanor's carelessness about her keys had always been proverbial. Clifford inwardly cursed the folly which had led him to commit the diamond for a moment to her keeping. " Here it is," she said at last, touching a spring, and showing him a little secret drawer which she opened and shut once or twice, as she pointed out its various advantages and the designs upon its side.

"Is it not pretty? It was one of Cicely's presents to me. I keep all my treasures in that secret drawer." " I wonder what is in it," said Clifford drawing nearer. Oh, no," she said, reddening excessively "you must not look." And then, before his fingers had swooped down upon the little packet, of which his keen eyes had already caught sight, she shut up the drawer with a little, sharp click, and looked at him some what defiantly. "There is nothing there for you to see," she said. " Except my own property," he answered, holding out his hand. "Ah, yes, I will give it you," she said, absently turning over the contents of her box. " See, here is something pretty. Poor Mrs. Le Breton gave it me when I was married. I have never worn it." " I don't wonder," remarked Clifford. " Come, Nell, open the drawer, and let me see your treasures."

" What do you mean ?" she asked, looking up at him with suddenly startled, innocent eyes. " Why should you not wonder that I have never worn Mrs. Le Breton's present ? Don't you think it pretty ?" " Oh, yes, very pretty. But Mrs. Le Breton — well, no doubt vour husband told you of his engagement to Mrs. Le Breton many years ago. You know how nearly they were married ?" He almost forgot his precious diamond in the malicious satisfaction that it gave him to see the colour come and go in her startled face. " Philip engaged to Mrs. Le Breton !" she exclaimed. " It can't be true — it can't. Oh, I remember; he would not tell me her name !" This remark was, of course, unintelligible to Clifford, but he saw her turn extremely pale, and hastened to drive home the nail which he hoped was already fastened in a sure place.

"My poor child," he said, "do you mean to say that he never told you ? Why, everybody knew, and everybody has remarked upon your patience in allowing her to come so much to your house. But nobody fancied that you did not know !" He held her by the hand, and placed his arm round her as if he feared that she would faint. But she was not inclined to faint, although she had turned pale ; she was simply stunned by the exhibition of Philip's character in a completely new light. And while they waited — she trembling and absorbed, he trying to soothe her with caressing words — the sound of a step in the passage, a hand upon the door, passed unnoticed. Philip was in the room, and looking at them with a great amaze upon his face, before they knew that they were not alone.

Chapter II

philip's discoverv. Clifford let fall the hand he held and moved away. Eleanor looked as though she were scarcely conscious of what was passing, but in truth she was keenly aware of this action, and felt a thrill of contempt for the man, who plainly showed that he was afraid of what her husband would say and think. As for Philip, after the first glance of astonishment, he simply disregarded Clifford's presence alto gether, walked up to Eleanor's side and leaned over her. "What is it, Eleanor?" he said, gently. " You have been disturbed. What is the matter ?" There was an appealing look in her dark eyes which emboldened him to draw her close to him with his arm. With a quick move ment she put up her hands and clung to him as if for protection. Clifford in the back ground scowled at them, forgotten and unseen.

The claim for help on Eleanor's part, the tenderness on Philip's, was a new revelation to Vargrave, and one which was as gall and wormwood to his soul. " What is it that troubles you ? Are you ill?" said Philip. "Eleanor, my darling!" His voice was scarcely raised above his breath, but Clifford heard every word. " No, I am not ill — at least I am better — it is nothing," said Eleanor, recovering her self a little, and shrinking away from her husband's touch with a sudden recollection of Clifford's presence and the information which he had given her. " I felt faint ; that was all." " You had better go up to your own room ; then we can shut up the house," said Philip, still with the cool disregard of Clifford Var grave which was more trying to that young man's temper than open insult. " Shall I come with you ?"

"Oh, no, not yet. Indeed, I am quite well," said Eleanor, rising hurriedly. The fire had come back to her cheeks and eyes, but she did not look at Philip. Good-bye, Clifford. I shall see you — in London — perhaps." " I hope so," said Clifford. " And I hope that you will then thank me for the infor mation that I have given you." He said it out of pure spite and vexation of spirit. He was angry at the interruption, angry with Philip for his solicitude, angry with Eleanor for her softness, angry with himself because — his nerve not being what it was — he dared not ask his cousin openly in her husband's presence for the little packet which she seemed to have forgotten. And so he made his mean little revengeful speech, which caused Eleanor to blush deeply, to glance at Philip, and then to cast down her eyes and bite her lip sharply, in order to keep it from quivering.

"What information?" said Philip, coldly. Clifford chose to answer the question, although it was not addressed directly to himself. But Philip's looks and words had roused him to a blind, mad fit of rao-e, as unusual in Clifford Vargrave as it was deadly. " I have had the honour," he said, with a smile which looked strange upon his thin white lips, " to inform Lady Eleanor of the relations existing between her husband and Mrs. Le Breton, of which she does not seem to have been aware." Philip wheeled round with a quick move ment, and surveyed the speaker from head to foot. There wasa look of haughty surprise upon his face ; but that was all. He would not condescend to answer. He slightly waved his hand towards the door as though to bid an impertinent intruder begone, then turned his back upon Vargrave and looked down at Eleanor.

But Eleanor did not read aright the mean ing of that contemptuous silence. She raised her eyes anxiously to his face ; troubled, foolish questions trembled on her lips. She said enough — just enough — to wound Philip's pride ; not enough to rouse in him the pity of which she really stood in need. "Is it true ?" she asked, falteringly. " Was it — Mrs. Le Breton — whom you meant the other night ?" " I was on the point of marrying Mrs. Le Breton many years ago,'" he answered in a very low tone ; "but the true story of that engagement had better lie between you and me alone, Eleanor. We want no inter meddlers." " Nor would I wish to meddle with your affairs," said Ciifford in a hard, incisive voice, "but I think it due to my cousin that she should know the truth." " From your lips!" Lorraine asked, calmly.

Clifford had goaded him into a retort at last. " From whose beside ?" said Clifford, gaining courage from Philip's quietness. It was plain that Lorraine would not quarrel with him in his wife's presence. He walked round to his cousin's side and took her hand in his. Eleanor stood cold and passive, but let him hold her hand. The attitude so evidently displeased Philip that Clifford was impelled to make the most of it. He drew Eleanor to him more closely, and held her hand in both his own. " I am Eleanor's nearest male relative," said Clifford, " and I have a right in her name, to demand an explanation." This was carrying the war into the enemy's camp, indeed, and Eleanor's hand twitched ; but Clifford would not let it go. Philip, his eyebrows gradually lowering, until they formed almost a straight line above his eyes, looked from one to another, and said nothing.