Novelist. [ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.] MARTIN DEVERIL'S DIAMOND

Waikato Times, Volume XXXIV, Issue 2778, 3 May 1890, Page 5 (Supplement)

Novelist. [ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.] MARTIN DEVERIL'S DIAMOND

A NOVEL By ADELINE SERGEANT, Author of "Jacobi's Wife," &e M &c.

CHAPTER VII.—AT Lady WELL Pkioky.

"I don't want to see him," said Miss Cicely Lorraine. She was sitting in a pleasant little clra wing-room opening upon a terrace, which ran the whole length of the stately old house known as Lady well Priory. A tiny tea-table stood before her, as she was pouring out tea for Philip Lorraine, who had just entered. Mrs Le Breton, her friend, companion, and connection by marriage, sat with face slightly averted, seemingly concentrating all her attention upon a •white Persian cat, which was drinking cream out of a saucer. Cicely Lorraine, at three-and-twenty, looked little like the mistress of Ladywell Priory. Her slim, elastic figure was very girlish, and her chestnut brown hair waved and curied all over her small, wellshaped head, as a child's hair will sometimes do. Her quick brown eyes were at present full of fun aud laughter, and her face, with its delicate but irregular features which she was in the habit of mistakenly considering very plain) was lighted up with a bright, dimpling smile, which has brought a pretty carnation to her oval, brown cheeks. There was something quaint and original about Cicely which generally excited interest. She was so fresh and bright and shrewd that her very appearance was refreshing as is a draught of cold water to a thirsty palate. Her father had been Mr Anthony Lorraine's elder brother. Her mother dying, whilst Cicely was still a child, she had been brought up by a doting father, who thought no sacrifice too great, no undertake

ing too arduous, which would conduce to his daughter's happiness. Ifc was for her pleasure that he had bought Lady well Priory as soon as it came into the market. He had formerly lived chiefly in London, but he was pleased to think of ending his days in the village where he had been born, and where his nephew, Phillip Lorraine, was master of the Grange, which had been in the possession of the Lorraines for two or three hundred years. For the Lorraines cauao of an old race, though not exactly of a distinguished one. Their ancestors had emigrated from the Netherlands in the time of Queen Elizabeth, and by diligent care and thrift had gradually possessed themselves' of land in Kent, on which they grew hops. In the time cf Phillip's greatgrandfather this land surrounding the I Grange had passed into other hands. Phillip's grandfather then went abroad and founded the house of business which rose in the time of his three sons to almost colossal dimensions; and these three sons, James (Phillip's father), Edgar (Cicely's father), and Anthony, the youngest of the trio, and the only one of the three surviving, were credited with the possession of enormous wealth. Edgar Lorraine had been the most ambitious of the three. James, and Phillip after him, with Anthony to boot, had been quite content to live within the comparatively modest precinctsoftheGrange; but Edgar thought it due to his daughter and to himself that they should be magnificently housed. Ladywell Priory had belonged, since the days of Henry the Eighth, to a family named Kinglake; and when the Kinglakes left the place and sold their estate it seemed good to Mr Edgar Lorraine that he should figure as lord of the manor in the very neighbourhood which had seen the rise, and knew the history, of the Lorraines.

He hoped that Philip and Cicely would marry, and so consolidate the firm and increase the greatness of the house; but Philip and Cicely never seemed at all inclined to carry out his wish. Even Mr Lorraine relinquished his hopes in time, when he found that Philip's heart was obstinately set upon a very different woman, and that Cicely hud become her cousin's chosen confidante with respect to his love affairs. And to this love affair a word or two should now be given.

Pauline Lamont was a teacher of French and music in the school at Brighton where Cicely had spent three or four years of her life, and Lady Eleanor Monckton had sojourned for a time. Miss Lamont, although some years older than Cicely, became the girl's closest friend; and, as her only home was with an old aunt in Jersey, she spent her holidays with the Lorraines, first in London and then at Ladywell. It was there that Philip fell in love with her, and it seemed at first as though she meant to accept him. But a distant relation of the Lorraines—some second or third cousinship existed between them —a young man named Robert Le Breton stood in the way. He was employed as a clerk by MiEdgar Lorraine, and was in the habit of spending much of his time either at Ladywell Priory or at the Grange.

The Lorraines were startled and offended to hear of an engagement subsisting between him and Miss Lamont; still more startled and still more offended when the two young people married, almost without consulting their friends, and certainly against the wishes of Pauline's only relation in Jersey. But the Lorraines' anger was directed principally against Robert, Everyone was sure that she had been wishful to act with honourable frankness, and that she knew very little of the character of the man whom she had married. For her sake they were indulgent to Robert's many shortcomings; for her sake they forgave him some very grave offences 3 but a day came at last when the partners lost all patience. Even Philip, who had hitherto done his best to hide and conione Le Breton's misdemeanours, now stood silent. Robert was dismissed from the office in disgrace, though he was not prosecuted, as he might well have been, for theft, embezzlement, and the forgery of which Philip still kept the proof. He disappeared for a time, in company with his wife, and it was by a mere chance that Cicely Lorraine at last found her old friend, Mrs Le Breton, living in straitened circumstances in Lonhon, her husband having gone abroad to seek his fortune.

After some hesitation it was decided that, as Mrs Tie Breton had ! been in no way responsible for her husband's defalcations, help might well be offered her by the Lorraine's. Pauline steadily refused help, but foy-and-bye a time of illness and distress came upon her ; a baby was born, and died, and in her weakness and distress of mind Cicely Lorraise carried her back to Ladywell, and established her at the Priory without much difficulty. Philip was then abroad; Mr Edgar Lorrane treated the forsaken wife with great courtesy and consideration, hoping that she would remain at Ladywell Priory as long as she could conveniently do so. She would never have stayed, however, but for a trouble which overtook Cicely at this time. Her father died, and Pauline could not bear to leave her. "When it became clear that, instead of letting the Priory and taking a small house in

town, or making a home with some distant female relatives in the south of England, or carrying out any other correct and respectable plan of making herself uncomfortable that her friends proposed to her—when, instead of any of these things, Miss Cicely Lorraine decided to live on at Ladywell Priory as she had been doing for the last four years, it was held to be a right and a natural thing that Mrs Le Breton should remain as friend and companion to this wilful young lady, who chose to act as if she were five-and-thirty, instead of twenty-one.

All this happened two or three years before the opening of this story. Cicely had had more than two yeats in which to learn how to rule her household, Mrs Le Breton had had even a longer time in which to regain her lost peace of mind and dread the return of a husband whom she despised. Philip was a constant visitor at the house, but his manner to her was never marked by distinctive warmth or coldness. It was only Anthony Lorraine who guessed that his passion for her, though scrupulously was not yet dead ; he himself gave no sign of any such survival. Cicely never guessed, and Pauline never at least acknowledged it if she did.

Mrs Le Breton, at the age of twenty-nine, was a very slight, pale woman, with exquisitely pathetic eyes; a low, sweet voice, and rippling black hair. She dressed with scrupulous plainness, always in black. Many people believed her to be a widow.

"1 don't want to see him," said Cicely, in answer to a proposal which Philip had just made. He had said that he wished to bring a friend of his own to call at the Priory, and her reply took him by surprise, although its ungraciousness was tempered by the smile upon her lips, and the sunny beam in her brown eyes.

" Then I won't bring him," said Philip, with an answering smile. " You are very hard-hearted, Cicely," remarked Mrs Le Breton. "If I am," said Cicely, brightly, "I am only making up for the softheartedness of my youth. We have had this place nine years, and for six months after my first arrival I never failed, to weep nightly over the woes of the Kinglake family. 1 don't at all pity the Kinglake family, now that I am a woman ; and I don't wish to be reminded by any member of it that I am only an interloper after all."

" Poor old Giles would never remind you of his own special interest in the place—not disagreeably so at any rate."

"How can you tell that?" said Ciceiy. " You dear, stupid boy, I don't mean to say that he would look round his ancestral halls with a sigh and exclaim, ' All this ought to be mine if right were done!' or tell me to my face that I was an insolent, ignorant little upstart; but one knows quite well that he would have some such feeling locked within his breast, and I prefer not to meec people who regard me in that light." " Sou are quite mistaken, Cicely ; quite mistaken. Giles Kinglake is incapable of any such feeling." " I am glad to hear it," said Cicely, promptly, "even although I may be a little slow in believing it. But I beg your pardon, Phil. I shall really be pleased to make Mr Kinglake's acquaintance. You need not think anything of this little spurt of ill-temper of mine. 1 don't mean it, quite." " You will like Giles Kinglake." " I always like your friends, Phil—except when they resemble Mr Vargrave, Eleanor Mockton's cousin, whom you brought down here one day. I will make amends for objecting beforehand to his visit by promising to like Mr Kinglake." " I do not quite see for my part why you object to his visit, Cicely," said Mrs Le Breton. Cicely laughed. " I'm afraid of

him," she said, gaily. " Afraid of Giles Kinglake V Phillip raised his eyebrows. Why ?' "Not because he is a clever man —not because he writes for the Saturday review—not because he is your guide, philosopher, and friend, Phill," Cicely ran on, laughingly, " but simply and solely because he was born in this house and I was not. I shiver when I think of the changes which he will observe in the furniture." " Don't be absurd, Cicely." " I am not at all absurd ; I am only anxious to spare the man's feelings. In his day, as old Richards often informs me, the cedar parlour was whitewashed, and there were only two windows in the drawing-room, and the library was furnished with the spindle-legged chairs and tables which I sent into my sitting-room upstairs. Do you think I had better get the spindlelegged chairs back before he comes, Pauline ?"

"He will not remember the furniture," said Phillip. " lie was only a boy of ten when his father was obliged to sell the property."

" I shall think very meanly of him if he does not remomber the whereabouts of every chair and table in the place," said Cicely with indignation. " However he is only a man, after all, his memory of things may not be distinct. Bring him soon, Phil, and let us get the inspection over. I can't think why he cares to come."

"He said he should very much like to see tlie old place again,"

remarked Philip, incautiously, at which Cicely spread out her hands with an air of mock despair, and said, "I told you so!" before she went out upon the terrace to feed her dog with weak tea and bread and butter. When she was gone, Philip tui'ned to Pauline with a sudden change of manner. Pauline had taken up some needlework, and was sewing with unremitting diligence and care, but he saw something in her face which called forth his solicitude. "What is disturbing you, Pauline ? " he said in a low tone. " Nothing." " Yes, you. have had bad news." " Oh, no. The best news. My husband is coming back to England. Of course lam delighted." She dropped her work and looked at him with a defiant smile; but there was despair in her sad eyes. 1 He uttered an inarticulate exclamation, and drew himself erect. Then he spoke very gently. "He shall not hurt you, Pauline." " That is so easy to say," she answered, taking up her work again, hut now with trembling fingers. "So easy to say so difficult to carry out. How can anyone protect me ? He never beat me nor starved me; he writes to me everyfew months, and sends me money ; he says now that he has made his fortune, and means to ' make a lady of me.' A lady according to his own taste, I presume." Her voice did not quiver, although her hands shook. It was slow, but firm, with a ring of passion in its tone which thrilled Philip Lorraine's nerves, and made his heart hot within him. He did not dare to speak. "Every word from him hurts me," she proceeded, quietly. "You cannot keep me from pain of that kind, Philip, though I know you would do so if you could. No, I must go back to him when he comes to England, I suppose, and live the life that he marks ®ut for me. Ho is the husband of ray choice." "No," said Philip. "No, 110 is

not. When faith is lost, when honour dies, the man is dead. It was not this man whom you married."

"I don't think the English law would recognise the difference," said Mrs Lo Breton, with a mocking smile. "Your sophistries have 110 effect upon me, Philip. No; as the old proverb says, ' I have made my bed, and must lie upon it,' how thorny soever it may be. I only hope that Robert does not expect me to become part proprietor of a gambling saloon or a music hall. I

don't think that my talents lie in that direction.

" Good heavens, Pauline! how can you talk in that light way of a— of a—martyrdom V cried Philip, strongly. " Because it is a martyrdom," she answered, without looking at him, " and I certainly shall not obtain the martyr's crown if I grumble at, the stake that my chains are too heavy or the faggots piled too high. That is enough, Philip. I did not mean to talk in this strain ; I simply wished you to know that my husband vvas on his way back to England. What is Cicely doing on the terrace V'

She rose and began to put away her work ; but Philip laid his hand upon her arm.

"You are mistaken in saying that I cannot prevent Robert from hurting you," he said. I can threaten him that I will prosecute him for—■ for "

" For forgery ?" she said. "Or embezzlement? Which 1 ? You see, I know the whole story of my husband's achievements." She stood still and looked at him with a curious smile upon her lips, a curious gleam in her eyes. "It would be no use, Philip," she went on softly. "He would not even be alarmed, because he would know—and I know too —that you could never do it." " You think I am too weak !" " Not too weak, but too scrupulous. You would never go through with it." " Yes, I would," he said with fire. " At a word from you " " But I shall never say the word," she returned sweetly enough, but with a determined setting of her lips. "Do you want to make me tho wife of a convict, Philip?" Philip groaned, sat down and leaned his face upon his hands. Pauline turned to the window. " Ah," she said composedly, " Cicely has gone down into the garden. Why did you come today ? Did you want to see Cicely or me?

" You," said the young man hurriedly. " I had something to tell you—but it will wait." " Why should it wait! Go on." Then, as he was still silent, she glanced at him and seemed to reflect a lir.tle. " I think I know what you were going to say,'' she observed with a faint smile.

" How can you know f " Because your uncle told me. I mot Mr Lorraine yesterday, and he had much pleasure in informing me that he had persuaded you that your best course was—to marry." Philip pushed back his hair, frowned, and made no answer.

" I think you are very wise," saicl Mrs Le Breton, serenely. " The Grange must be terribly dreary, inhabited by you two men with no one to brighten your lives for you. I congratulate you, Philip." " Don't," he said, briefly, and was silent. " She will ruake you very much

happier, I have no doubt. And you will make her happy, too. Tell me all about her, Philip, I did not hear her name."

" You are premature, Pauline. It has not gone as far as you suppose. I have not yet spoken to heron the subject. In fact, I have left matters a great deal to my unele." " A royal alliance," she said with some irony, " which is decided by the reigning head of the family ! Let us hope that your princess will not object to be wooed by proxy. So your uncle is in treaty with her relations about the marriage contract- - He interrupted her. "If you say another word I will put a stop to the whole business, for you will convince me that it is not my duty to marry at all," ■ She saw that he was irritated to. the verge of exasperation—--a rare state indeed for Philip 'Lorraine to reach—and, woman-like, she immediately beat a retreat. " Oh, no, Philip," she said, softly, "you would not disappoint your uncle in that way. Surely your honour is engaged. He has spoken of the matter to her friends, has he not V " To her aunt, with whom she lives." " Is she an orphan ? " "Yes. An orphan, poor, proud and unhappy. She does not like the relations with whom she lives, and they don't like her—with one exception. There is a worthless

cousin who is making love to her, and may have touched her fancy, I believe, but, as far as I know anything of him, she had better be drowned in the sea, or married to your humble servant, then be made his wife. Besides,. he is trifling with her; he doos not want to marry her." "Is she pretty? " "I hardly know," said. Philip, indifferently. "I scarcely looked at her " " Young ? " " Sevontcen or eighteen." " Poor child ! " said Pauline, almost below her breath. And then she shook her head. " I bogiu to think that you are rijrht, Philip. You should not marry this girl of eighteen without offering her your whole hoart. Marry, yes, inarry, but lot your choice fall upon au older woman, who has lost her illusious, whom you neod not deceive."

"Deceive!" Philip spoke the word indignantly. "Do you think I should not tell her the truth! Of course I shall say to her that I do not offer her a boy's first love, but that I can give her all care, tenderness, kindness." " Do you think, then, that a girl of eighteen will accept kindness instead of love, and be happy? Oh, Phil, Phil, you have a great deal to learn!" She put out her slender, white fingers, and touched the back of his hand. " My friend," she said, very gently, "be guided by me. This is too great a risk. Do not make a slave of that poor child; she will be nothing else if she does not love you and you do not love her. Wait, and choose wisely." Philip drew a long breath; it sounded almost like a sigh of relief. " I will," he said, in a low tone. " You are wiser than I, Pauline." " Wiserin reading women's hearts yes," she answered, with something of the irony which much of her speech. " I have had occasion to study my own sometimes." " Here comes my uncle." said Phillip, starting up and going to the window. "He wants me, may Igo to him ?"

She smiled an assent, and in another moment he had joined Mr Anthony Lorraine upon the terrace. Cicely's house was perfectly free to her uncle aiid cousin ; thoy caine and went as pleased them, though scarcely often onough to pleaso its mistress. The two men stood talking together for some few miuutos *, then Mr Lorraine turned to the garden steps with a gesture of vexation, and Philip walked slowly back to the window. He had a letter in his hand, and his face was

a little pale. " It is too late, Pauline," he said. " My uncle had written to tho aunt of tho young lady whom I mentioned to you, and the aunt has made no secret of the matter. The girl herself has been asked—and has consented." He would not meet her eyes as he spoke. There was a silence. Then Pauline broke the thread of her work by an abrupt movement of the hands, and rose from her seat. "It is too late, as you say. I hope you will be happy, Philip. What is her name ?" " You know her name already," he answered, with some reluctance. "It is Cicely's old school friend, Lady Eleanor Monckton."