Novelist. [All Rights Reserved.] MARTIN DEVERIL'S DIAMOND.

Waikato Times, Volume XXXV, Issue 2820, 9 August 1890, Page 5 (Supplement)

Novelist. [All Rights Reserved.] MARTIN DEVERIL'S DIAMOND.

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

CHAPTER XXXVII—The J i:\vf.l-i:ox.

It was closo upon Christmas timeThe crisp coating of snow upou the ground sparkled in a, Hood of sunlight ; every twig of the hedges was crystalised, every withered brown loaf 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 elvish handiwork. The scene was one of such singular beauty that Eleanor Lorraine had been tempted out of the warm rooms that she loved, and, wrapped in furs, was walking round the old Grange garden, admiring the clipped hedge 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 skake a mass of snow off tho tail of of some tree-peacock overladen with tho 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 halfstarved kitten which run toward her mowing, and cradled it in her 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 la.st time. Did she lored the place 1 Yet she had said once that tho Grange was melancholy and depressing. She had thought

evoii 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 shy walked towards the house she saw him coming to meet her. How grave he looked, she thought, and yet how kind, how noblo ? She had said once—she was in the mood for remembering those old fancies — that Philip Lorraine had wboiinjcoin air. She scorned herself for her own want of discrimination. Shi; had then compared him with Anthony Lorraine, the upright, gallantlooking white-haired old man, the veritable pere noble of comedy: and had undervalued Philip's more thoughtful bearing and intellectual 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 complexion, with its unusual glow of colour caused by the healthful wintry air. She had fastened a cluster of the scarlet holly berries into the knot of black lace at her throat; the little head of the kitten rubbed itself restlessly 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 help 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 foun>l it in the shrubbery I want some milk for it."

" You have a kitten ; I have something else/' said Philip, lightly. "Excuse me for interfering. I discovered a village-boy hanginc 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-looking missive, rather like a tradesman's communication in appearance. Eleanor held out her hand for it hastily. She did not oven 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. lie said quite easily and pleasantly :

"Shall 1 take this poor little cat to the kitchen for you 1 Its bones are nearly out of its skin, I think.''

He moved away, with the kitten on hi.s arm. Eleanor watched him out of sight. She drew a long sigh. " Kind to everything and everybody but me F she murmured jealously. Then she turned her back abruptly to the house, walked down one of the yew-hedged paths, and tore open her letter.

.She had not expected itjandyet she knew instinctively whence it came. Clifford lmd written to her .several times liy post sine!; Philip h;ul forbidden him the house, and had said in his hist l-'lter--- -"I shall want to sets you .snoii. When 1 come down to Ladywell .1 will let you know, and we must arrange a meeting, If ] come suddenly, 1 will send word liy 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 correspondence. .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, " 1 nni pining for a sight of you. Where can you bo 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 I —Yours devotedly, "0. 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 V she asked with a visible affort. "The kitten? Oh, yes. It belonged to one of the servants.' , Philip's thoughts had evidently been far away; but they came 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 gentlo thoughtfulness. " I wanted to say to you, Eleanor," he contitued, " that your cousin Clifford has no need to seek underhand methods of communication with you. ileis 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') 1 assure you, Kleanor, I did so carelessly enough, but when I heard the answer, and knew that he chose to send you lottcr.s by underhand means, 1 felt that I had a right to object. ,, " Y r ou can see the letter if you like/ , " ISio, 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 quarrel— is—. [ suppose —not yours," lie 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 understand what he meant; indeed, he would even yield the point about Clifford's coming to the house, provided that h<: saw nothing of the young man. I>' could not 1)0 expected that he should meet Vargrave on friendly terms, although lie would not attempt to separate Eleanor from her cousin. Hut if she said that she wished to sue 01 i(lord again he would give way.

But Eleanor wiis'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. Once left alone, her heart mis gave her ; she wished that she had spoken. But it was too late new to call him back.

Clifford Vargrave was walking at a brisk pace down the Mori ton 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 ho had overtaken her. They shook hands, exchanging civilities the fashion of acquaintances who meet in the road by chance, then walked on side by side. The Meriton Eoad was one which ran out of the village of Ladywell in an opposite direction from that of the railway station and the now notorious Brale Wood, whither 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. Me answered heedfully. '• For one thing, Nell, i felt that I must know why you had written to mv sisters about a house. Was it for yourself?' , ""Yes : don't talk of it, r, she said shortly. "But I must talk of it, d<>ar. Your are going to leave Lorraine in January ! !: "I suppose so.' " And you mean to settle in a small house near London all by yourself V " I suppose so." Clillbrd looked at her. The dull sound of her voice, expressive either of resignation or of despnir, amazed him. "My dear child,' , he said, drawing her hand through his arm —for they were walking along a quite part of the road where they could not possible be observed— "you have been very unhappy.' - ' "I am very unhappy now/' said Eleanor. " It won't be for very long, Nell. When you have once made the plunge—once separated yourself from ti man who has never loved you and whom you have never loved '

" You arc ijiiito wrong," cried I-jleauor, with a passionato sob. (She withdrew her hand from his arm, and stood still for a moment in the middle of the road, thon walked on swiftly. " You tiro quite wrong," sho repeated, but sho did not tell him how.

Clifford was too crafty to pursuo tho subject. Ho was .sure that ho should find her in a moro tre-a table mood another time. lie told her, instead, of his own troublos and difficulties ; explained to her with great sadnoss of tone and manner that ho was staying in England only for tho end of Giles Kinglake's trial. When that was over he should go away, ho know not whither, and never return to England again. He was weary of England he said ; weary of tho striving and struggling for existence which was meant by lil'o in England. Ho thought that lie should seek out soino beautiful retreat upon tho shores of the blue Mediterranean, and try to forget tho sorrows and disappointments which had wrecked his life and loft him a broken-hoarted man. Lady Eleanor listened, sympathised, ovon wept a little ovor tho recital of Clifford's woes ; and yet he had not touched her in tho way that ho used to do. She was abstracted at times ; she did not always catch tho point of what ho was saying. He failed to bring the colour to her fair, serious cheek by his allusions to tho past. Sho had forgotten 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. Ho became irritated at last by her insensibility, but he tried to control his impatience. Eleanor would not always bo unlike herself. She would respond better in time." Towards the close of their walkhe asked her whether Philip was at home. " No," she answered. "He has gone to London, lie will not be homo 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?' ,

'•Lie is never angry with me," said Eleanor, hastily.

"Never ? Then .1. may come? Yuii won't be angry with me, Nell."

''"But, Clifford—you would not care to enter his house again now?"

" Only for your sake, Eleanor. l, r c has misjudged me too much oven to be my friend again. But for your sake I would forget my prejudices, even as i withheld my

hand from striking him when he insulted me."

Eleanor's eyes glistened. " Ah, that was good of you," she said, simply. And she, gave him her hand as though to thank him for a favour bestowed upon her. "Noio I understand."

She went away without giving him permission to visit her. But he thought himself quite justified in taking it for granted.

Eleanor dined alone, and then drank hereotfee in her own sittingroom 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 pea-cock-hues, tho dull reds, and golds with which she had redecorated its walls, the various curiosities and ol>j<:ts cVnrt with which she had tried to make it beautiful. Yet more than once she had caught herself thinking with some regret of tho panelled room with a low ceiling and diamondpaned 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 al! these things when I am gone f' she said, looking round at her art-collection with more distaste than interest. " Keep them hero, I wonder, or send them after me .' Will he ever sit here and think of me? All, no; he prefers his study or his mother's room. And yet —last month—l thought chat he cured 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 murmured, sobbing quietly to herself, "I cannot go away. Indeed—indeed —I love you now."

A sudden, slight tap at the window made herstart 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 snowflakcs 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 sho knew so well. "My darling is so fair." Yes, it was certainly Clifford's voice. I 1 or soiuo reason or other Lady Eleanor's hands trembled and turned cold as sho let the curtain fall again and walked to tho door of thu room. Should sho let her cousin in or not ? There was a door into tho garden in this part of the house ; and sho could easily admit him, have a littlo 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 openly to the house, as Clifford had tried to persiuule her to do. For that reason she had avoided answering hiiii that afternoon. Hut 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 out into the passage and unbolted the garden door.

" Ulill'ord," she said, woftly, " arc you there V lie cauic 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 mo come in and warm myself at your sitting-room fire, then, for a few minutes, Nell, i have to go back to London to-mor-row morning,.and I have something to ask you lirst.' , She yielded, and let him pass. He entered the room, and stood before the lire ; his ulster was powdered with the snowllakes ; his hair and hands were wet with melted snow. " You are very cold and wet," said Lady Eleanor, touching the sleeve oi his ulster with the tips of her lingers. " You should have tkaen this oil' outside.' .

".May I." " I'-'or a fesv minutes.' . And as he suited the action to the word, she added, brielly, " You must have been very cold out there? •■ Very cold, Nell, and very sad at hear!. 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 wondering outside, pausing beneath 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 Clifford, Gloomily.

She was silent. Something in the pose of her dainty head told him thac she had not liked his speech. He changed his tone.

" As I am here, and may not see you ugain for some time, I may as well relieve you of that little packet which I oonfided to your care, Nell. You have kept it safe V

" Quite safe," said Eleanor, relieved at the change of subject, and looking up with a bright face. "Do you want it now ? I think it is in my case."

"If you have it here," said Clifford, indill'erently. 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-caso down bore," said Eleanor, moving towards an escritoire in which was contained a largo, deep drawer. I will look. If it is not hero, it will bo in my dressing-room upstairs." Clifford waited patiently. She brought out a bunch of keys aud 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 hiui 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 sin pointed out its various advantages and designs upon its side. "Ih it not pretty I It was one of Cicely's presents to inc. [ keep all my treasures in that secret drawer. , '

" [ wonder what is in it," said Clifford, drawing nearer.

" Oil, no,' , she said, reddening excessively, "you must not look." And then, before his lingers 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 somewhat 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 tho contents of her box. See, here is something pretty. Poor Mrs Le Ijriiton gave it me when 1 was married. I. have never worn it."

"I. don't wonder," remarked Clifton], -l Come, Nell, open the drawer, and let mo see your treasures." "What do you mean?'' she asked, looking up at him with suddenly startled, innocent eyes. " Why should you \vond>;r that I have never worn Mrs Le Breton's prosent. Don't you think it pretty ?" " Oh, yos, very pretty. But Mrs Le Breton—well, no doubt your husband told you of his ongagoto Mrs Lo Breton many yours ago ? You know how nearly they wero married ?" l[o almost forgot his precious diamond in the malicious satisfaction that it gave him to see the colour como and go in her startled face. " rhilip engaged to Mrs Le Breton !" sho exclaimed. "It can't bo true —it can't. Oil, I reinomber ; ho would not tell mo her name." This remark was, of course, unintelligible to Clifford, but he saw her turn extremely pale, and hustonod to drive homo the nail which he hoped was already fasconed in a sure placo. '• My poor child," he said, "do you mean to say that ho never told you '? Why, everybody knew, and overybody has roinarkod upon your patioiico in allowing her to come so much to your house. But nobody fancied that you did not know!"

lie 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, lie 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 XXXVIU.. — Philii'V iJisdoVKlU'. 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 whs afraid of what her husband would say and think. As for l'hilip, after the iirst glance of a&tonishment, ho simply disregarded Clifford's presence altogether, walked up to Eleanor's side and leaned over her. " What is it, Eleanor ?" lie 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 movement she put up her hands and clung to him as if for protection. Clifford in the background scowled at them, forgotten and unseen. The claim for help on Eleanor's part, the tenderness on Philip's, was a new revelation to Vargravc, 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, lam not ill—at least lam bettor —It is nothing:," snid Eleanor, recovering herself a little, and shrinkinsr nwny from her husband's touch with :i sudden recollection of Clifford's presence and the information which ho had given her. " I felt faint; that wasiill." " Yon b:ul better £0 up to your own room ; then wo can phut up tho house," said Philip, i-Ull with the cool disregard of Clifford Vargnivo which wns inoro trying to that youmr man's temper than open insult. " Shall I come with you?" "'•Oh, no, not yet. Indeed lam quite well," said Eleanor, rising hurriedly. The fire had come bnuU to her cheeks and eyes, but she did not look at Philip. "Good-bye, Clifford, I shall seo you—in London—perhaps. ,, " I hope no," said Clifford. " And I hope that you will then thank me for the information that I have given you." He said it out of pure spite and vexation of spirit. He was ansrry at the interruption, angry with Philip for hie solicitude, angry with Eleanor for her softness, angry with himself because— his nervo not being what it was—he dared not ask his cousiu openly in her husband's presence for tho little packet which sho scorned to have forgotten. And so ho made his mean little revengefid speech, which caused Eleanor to blush deeply, to glance at Philip, and then to east dawn her eyes and bite lip sharply, in order to keep it from quivering. "What information?" eaid Philip, coldly. Clifford chose to answer tho question, although it was not addressed directly to himself. But Philip's looks and words had roused him to a blind, mad fit of rage, as unusual in Clifford Vargravo 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 tho relations existing between her husband and Mrs Lβ Breton, ot which sho does not seem to have been aware."

Philip wheeled round with a quick movement, and surveyed the speaker from head to foot. There was a look of haughty surprise upon his fane ; but that was all. Ho would not condescend to answer. Ho slightly waved his hand towards the door as though to hid an impertinent intruder begone, then turned hi-; Ivick upon Yargravo aud looked down at Eleaunr.

lint Eleanor did not read aright the meaning 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 ; uot enough to rouse i.i him the pity of which she really stood in need. "la it true?"' she asked falteringly. "Wag it—Mrs Lβ 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 110 intenneddlers."

"Nor would I wish to meddle with your affairs," said Clifford in a hard, incisive voice, " but I think it due to my cousin that sho should know the truth,"

" From your lips !" Lorraine asked calmly. Clifford had goaded him into a retort at last. " From whose beside?" said Clifford, cainini; courage from Philip's quietness. It was plain that Lorraine would not (I'laiTol with him in his wife's presence, lie walked round to his cousin's side, and took her hand in his. Eleanor stood cold and passive, but let him hold her hand. Tim attitude so evidently displeased Philip that Clifford was impelled to make the moat 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 the other, and said nothing. _ Of what did Eleanor demand an explanation? What could Vargrave know ? What had he said ?

"Au engagement many years ago may count for nothing," Clifford continued ; " I)nt how can you explain what passed between you and Mrs Le Breton on the itay before your marriage ':'' I'liilip raised his hand. Urn face changed. "Stop!" lie said hoarsely. His eyes were fixed upon Eleanor with a look of inexpressible dread. " For God's sake say no more." " Why not, if you are so shameless ?" said Clifiord's mocking voice. " Did yon, or did you not, oifer—on thu very ovo of your wedding-day, romomber— to ' throw over ' Liidy Eleanor Moiickton if Mrs Lo Breton will marry you in her plaeo Y You thought Robert Le Breton was dead, you knew, or at least you profossod to think so, aud you were quite ready to sacrifice my cousin Eleanor for her sake. Unfortunately for you, Eleanor, Mrs Le Breton had the decency to refuse to carry out this proposition, but not from want of urging on Lorraine's part. And then he hua the cool iusolence to bring her here to bo your friend, and Haunt his friendship with her in the eyes of the world." " Oh, Philip, say that it is not true !" cried Eleanor, in an agony.

Clifford paused and smiled. He could afford to wait for the answer. He knew that not for a kingdom would Philip Lorraine have told a lie.

That past hour of Philip's weakness cost him dcai 1 . He had almost forgotten it ; but now the memory of it arose like an avenging spectre, and deprived him of his courage and of his strength. How could he raise his head and look his wife in the face, when ho could not deny that he had proposed to desert her, as Clifford said, on the very eve of his wedding-day ? With folded arms, bent head, and compressed lips, lie listened, but did not respond to Eleanor's passionate appeal. " Speak, Philip ! Let mo go," slio cried, snatching her hand from Clifford's •'rasp, and almost shakiug her husband's arm with it. ''Toll me that hois mistaken— that it is not true. Oh, Philip, say something. It it in true—unruly— surely I ought to know."

" It is true, Eleanor," said Philip, very quietly. Ue raised his eyes and looked at her. There was the old, grave, kindly look in their hazel depths, but thoro was infinite sadness, too. Ilia face was pinched and «rey ; the utturuuoo nf those words suemed to taUu ail the Hie and youth out of it. Hi 1 said nothing more. What was the use of telling her that he was sorry? The chance of winuing her love was over now." " True !" Hhe repeated, with a wail of distress which wrung Philip's heart and

made Clifford Vargravo grind his teeth with iage. "True, and I never guessed —I never knew ! I always believed in you." All three were silent. The two men looked at, her us she stood between them, mute, pale, her hands hanging, one hot trar upon her cheek—but only one. After the first moment she knew that her grief was too great for tears. In the blanknoss of utter despair one does not. woop. Philip hud failed her ; Philip had deceived her. Sho eared to know nothing more. "It is true," said Philip, at last, in the sains even, measured tones, "and I have no excuses to make to you—but, if I had, I would not make them in the presence of this man—this cousin of yours, who has had the baseness and the folly to reveal secrets which were never meant for him to hear. I say nothing of the means by which he must have learnt them. I will reckon with him alone. Go, Eleanor." His eye was so stern as it rested upon Clifford that he involuntarily quailed, and Eleanor was roused to resistance. " I will not go until Clifford is safely out of,the house," she said eagerly, "without insult and without injury." " You need not be afraid for your cousin's sake," he said. "I will not punish him as long as he is under my roof." "Your very words are an insult," cried Clifford. "An insult—to you?" Philip slightly shrugged his shoulders. " There are some meu whom it would be impossible to insnlt. They have sunk too low. As my wife does not choose to leave us, and I do not wish to touch you in her presence, sir, may I beg of you to leave my house this instant, before I give you the thrashing you deserve. The only punishment for curs is caning." This unusual burst of anger on Philip's part reached its culminating point in the the last ffiw words. He had bejiun calmly enough ; but the concluding sentences were r.bundered forth with an energy which even his impetuous uncle, in his most volcanic moods, could never have surpassed. Clifford made some fierce gesture in return ; his blood was up too ; but Eleanor flung herself between them. " No, no !" she cried ; '• you shall not tonch ouch other. Philip, let him goClifford, go quickly. For my sake !" She had thrown "herself upon Clifford's nrm and held it, but her eyes were turned appealingly to Philip's face. Clifford hesitated, lowered his arm, then smiled strangely and almost staggered. He passed his hand over his eyes as if a mist had come boforo them, and repeated Eleanor's words. " For your sake, Eleanor?" he said. " For your sake I will do anything." "Leave the house sir. Elcauor, let him go," cried Philip, hardly knowiug what lie said. "He shall not touch you —he is not fit to breathe the same air with you." "My own cousin!" said Eleanor, holding Clifford's arm, and looking up into her husband's face with chill surprise. Ami then there was a pause. Philip's breath came fust. Clifford waited for a moment. He knew well what was in Lorraine's mind, and he was ou his guard, He knew that the temptation was strong upon Philip Lor raine to tell Lady Eleanor of that broken engagement with Pauline. Indeed, the weapon lay so close to his adversary's hand that Clifford wondered why he did not use it. But Philip disdained a weapon of that sort. Clifford had accused him of falseness. Well, the accusation was true—he must bear it. But ho would not sink to Vargrave's level by bringing a counter accusation. He would have to stoop, it seemed to him, in order to pick up the weapon that Clifford had let drop, and he would not stoop. He said nothing. Clifford, seeing that he was not to bo branded in Eleanor's eyea with the name of a forger and a cheat, and despising Philip for his weakness in not doing so, uttered a short, contemptuous laugh, put his arm round Eleanor, and kissed her. "Good-bye, Nell," he said. "You may as well give me " He did not finish the sentence. Philip sprang forward, laid hands on him, and forced him backwards to the door. Eleanor screamed faintly. Her husband shook her off, he was beside himself. Iu another moment or two Clifford had been thrust out—it would scarcely be too much to say kicked out—into the cold night air, his clothes torn, his lip bleeding, his wrist slightly sprained in the seuflle. A more ignominious exit couhl hardly have heen conceived. And then Philip returned to his wife's sitting-room, and found her standing where he had left her, in the middle af the floor, witd her eyes distended, and her lips white with terror. Had she been afraid for Clifford or for him ? He stopped short, and asked this question of himself as he looked at her. But her first words answered the question—or he thought they did. "Is he hurt?" she asked anxiously, " You did not strike him ?"

"I don't know what I did," said Philip sternly, "He deserved it all." " For telling the truth—of you ?'' asked Eleanor, very low. " No, not for that," Philip answered, after a moment's pause. "He is your cousin ; perhaps he had some right to ask for an explanation. But to do it in your presence- —to speak iu that way — lie, of all men ! "

" And why not ' he, of all men ?' " said Eleanor, her silvery voice vibrating. " Why should not my cousin interfere to protect me, when it seems that you wanted to cast me off? He, at least, has been kind ; he pitied me when I was more desolate than I knew ; he never breathed a word until he found out how forlorn I was, although I was your wife, Philip!" Aud then she burst out weeping, and went on at interv»ls betweeu her sobs. "He thought that 1 ought to know —he saw that you did not love me ho W as sorry, more sorry than I was for myself!—but then I did not know !" " What did you not know, Eleanor ?" said Philip, after a moment's pause. She had seated herself at the writingtable, and laid her head down upon her folded arms. His face worked as he watched her; it was stern with pain that he was striving to repress. " You did not know that I had been weak—unworthy of myself—that I had yielded to a temptation to break off our marriage before I had learnt to know what you could be to me—but you knew that I once loved another woman ; I told you so myself, though I did not tell you her name. I told you instead the name of the woman that I had learnt to love. Eleanor, was not that enough '!"

" Enough !" she said bitterly. " After you had deluded and deceived me? Ido not know what to believe, whom to trust. It seems us if '.lie foundations of the world had given way. I have nobody left except my cousin Clifford, whom you have insulted, and thrust by force out of the house."

" It seems," answered Philip, witliequal bitterness, "as if you wished me to ask you which you preferred, your Cousin Clifford or your husband. For I tell you plainly, you certainly cannot have the companionship of both."

"Clifford is my kinsman," said Eleanor proudly. "And you—have you forKotten that iu two or three weeks we have agreed to part ? What is the use of talking to me about yourself ?''

" Not much, apparently. Does it never occur to you that you have a duty to fulfil to me ?" •'Have you fulfilled yours?" " Since my marriage day, God knows that I have tried to do so, Eleanor." She raised her head as if to protest, but said nothing after all. For her eyes fell upon the ornament which had been the cause of Clifford's communications, and a movement of anger shook her soul to its very centre. "Take it back to her, ,, she said, pushing the little jewelled trifle towards her husband. "Tell her Ido not want it any longer. No, you have not done your duty since your marriage, Philip, or you would never have allowed me to keep a gift from her." Philip took the ornament in his hand. "She meant it kindly, Eleanor," he said, in a saddened tone, " and I meant it for the best too. Child, would it not be better to forgive each other our errors, and go on our way in peace ?" She shook her head. " What use would it be ?" she said passionately. "I should not trust you now, and 1 know that you do not love me." He made a sudden, eager gesture, but she would not let him approach. " No," she said coldly. "Itis no use. We are not suited to each other. We had better part in time." "Perhapsyou are right," said Philip, his face paling as he turned away. " Let us live our own lives, then, apart trom one another. I can go abroad ; I shall make interests for myself, no doubt, and you—you have your relations." " Yes, I have the Vargraves. You have your friends, too." "Go if you will, then. But for Heaven's sake, Eleanor, listen to me for a moment while I warn you against Clifford Vargrave. He is not to be trusted. He is false, unprincipled, bad to the core; he is not a fit companion for any woman, good, innocent, beautiful, like yourself. For your own sake, Eleanor, beware of him. I have scarcely the right to wain you, but I canuot forbear. Why will you not let me stand between you and harm ?" " Nobody shall stand between mo and my own family," said Eleanor," obstinately. She knew that she was wrong in sayiug so, but it was her own piece of reveng* against Philip. There was no other way in which she could wound him so easily. And this time the wound indicted was a deep one. Philip bit his lip and changed colour; his brow contracted as if with pain. Twice he began to speak ; twice he checked himself and refraiued. At last he spoke, and this time with authority. "Let the discussion end, then, Eleanor. Only understand me, once and for all, there shall be no further communication between you and your cousin while you are in my house. When you have left me you can do as you choose." Eleaner had begun to pick up her sparkling gauds and trinkets and to replace them with trembling fingers in their nests of cotton wool; she paused as she heard these words, and answered sharply : — "it is absurd to say that. I must see my cousin when and where I choose." "Not in this house." " I must go out of the house, then," said Lady Eleanor, thinking for the moment more of Clifford's packet than of Philip's wrath. She had forgotten to give him his property before he went. To Philip her words sounded intolerably defiant. But he had grown cool again, and auswerod with more severity than positive anger. 11 We are certainiy not suited to each other, as you say. I shall feel it the more strongly if you persist in the very line of conduct which I have forbidden." " I must see Clifford once more," said Eleanor, flushing hotly and feeling herself misunderstood. " Why ?" She made no answer, but wont on replaeiug the ornaments in the jewillio.v. He watched her, but did not repent the question. Presently, howover, he turned away and walked quietly out of the room. Eleanor heard him cross the hall, go u;> the stuivri, and walk nlonjr thu upper gallery, where his footsteps finally died away. And then as she listened ic seemed to her that she heard outside Iho window other footsteps than hi.", tho sound of a broken brunch or of a loosened stone. Was it possible, then, that Olilt'jrd was still outside ?

She sprang to the window, without a thought of fear, and noiselessly threw it open. Yes, it was Clifford's face tlmt c<l me into view—haggard, bleeding, disfigured, not only by the mark of Philip's hand, but by a sickening expression of rage and fear. " You here still!" he muttered. Tlu.'ro was no tenderness in his aooents now. " I thought you were gone. I listened mid heard nothing. Give me the stono—'ll3 little packet, I mean. I don't know what I'm saying. Quick—give it me." "Clifford, you are ill; k° home , ," 9Rid Eleanor, frightened out of her mUmico by his wild looks and words. But lie interrupted her savagely :-— "Give it me, I tell you—dou't wanto the timo. I shall be a ruined man if it is lost."

She wont to her jewel-box, silently touched the spring, and touk out i.ho little packet—au insigmfiiwnt-l inking littlo paroel, wrapped iu brown paper and tied with string. Slie had ju.it turned with it to tho window, when she hoard a cry, an oath, from Clifford'* lips. She looked ; ho had disappeared. Philip was in the loom. With miu spring she tried to reach tho window. She could have thrown the parcel to him if she had been a moment earlier; but it was too late. Her husband's hand wa* on her arm ; his eyes were blazing n question into hore. Clifford was gone. Lie dared not stay.

" What have you here?" said Philip, taking the hand which held the 111.110 parcel iu his own. "What gift woro you making to that fellow ?" "It was his own," cried Eleanor, pul-j with dismay. "Indeed, Philip, it w.13 nothing of mine. Ho asked mototiku care of it—oh, a long time ago."

" How long ?" " (V long time-before Mrs Pon./fnthur Wrtiit away. On that you went to Meriton to see Mr Kinyiaku, I think "

Perhaps she hoped to soften him by a reference to the day on which they hid been so near reconciliation. But she did not succeed. That day was marked in his memory of another far different event. It was two days after Robert Le Breton's death. "Give it to me, he said sternly. And when she resisted he opened her slender little lingers by main fore: and tool; it from her. Eleanor burst into tears ; but Philip's face did not relax a muscle.

He tore oft'the string and the brown paper. Inside it hi 3 found iiuottinr wrapper, sealed with wax. Kulhlcssly enough he broke the seal and cast tin' paper aside. Then came a little roll rf linen, then a layer of cotton wool ; and, last of all, there lay in his hand a stone which, uncut and unpolished as it was, rcfiectorl the lustre of the lamps from every angle in a thousand quivering li«hts ; a fitone for which, during the last few weeks, search had been mark; through every jeweller's shopj.:id every lapidary's premises in London, arJ for which a great reward had been offwod iu the hope that;

its discovery would tend to clear one iniii and to c mviufc another of the guilt (if murder. Here it had lain during all these days iind weeks ; liore it lay quietly in I'hilip Lorraine's unsteady hand—just as it lirttl been described to him a hundred times—verily and without pnssiblity of n\Ul:\kc-][>!ft'i> V),t..tj,''.v DU'moihl! (To be continued.)