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

Waikato Times, Volume XXXV, Issue 2823, 16 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 XXXIX,—A Link IX tjie Chain Philip looked at the stone in his hand, at the window, at Eleanor, in turn. For a moment he could not speak. His wife's face, candid and innocent as it was, swam in a mist of doubt and suspicion before his eyes. But he could not retain more than a fleeting doubt of her. Holding out the diamond with a hand that shook in spite of his eftorts to keep it still, he said hurriedly : — " You don't know what this is? You had it from Clillord Vargrave?" " Yes," said Eleanor, shrinking back from him a little. " lie gavo it me to take care of. Ho did not tell me—he did not show mo what it was." " Why did ho ask you to take care of it?" said Philip, calming down as he saw the astonishment and evident unconsciousness of harm. But when she blushed and remained silent, his brow again grew dark. He spoke, however, gently. " I do not ask out of idle curiosity," he said. " Much may depend upon your answer, Eleanor. Don't trifle witli mo for a mere whim of the moment." "Will anything that I say do harm to Clillordshe said slowly. "[ do not know. I cannot possible toll you beforehand." " Then I think I had better say nothing," said Lady Eleanor, very coldly. Philip turned from her impatiently " You 'mast speak," he urged. (i You have no choice." " No choice !"

" Indeed you have no choice,' ho said earnestly, undismayed by her haughty tone. " This is a matter of life and death, Eleanor. I beg of you to speak. Tell me the history of this stone as far aa you know it, if you would save me from the deepest sorrow and anxiety."

" But I do not know its history," she said, much more meekly than he had expected to hear her speak. She had been touched by his pleading words and tone. " Indeed he did not teU me much. Perhaps,' , she added faintly, " he did not know." " That is so likely V cried Philip half scornfully. Then, seeing her face, he softened his tone, " Can you not tell me what he said to you about it?"

"He said that it was—a locket " she began, in a bewildered, dazed sort of way ; then a sudden flush of colour overspread her fair face, and she hid it in her hands with a gesture of shame and despair. "Oh, I can't tell you?' , she cried. " It's no use ; I can't tell you what he said.' .

Philip looked at her and bit his lips. " A locket T' he repented. She answered reluctantly and faintly, as if against her will. " A locket which he valued—it had belonged to someone whom he cared for" Her voico sank to a whisper. She paused, then finding that he did not interrupt her by a question, she proceeded more hastily. "He had broken it, lie said, when he was hero last time, and, as he had to stay in Ladywoll for a few days, lie did not know what to do with it ; because he did not want it to be seen, and lie thought that the people at the inn pried into his affairs. So he brought it to mo and asked me to take care of it until he went to London. And then—you quarrelled with him—and I suppose he forgot the little parcel : at any rate he went to London, and I have scarcely seen him since—until to-day." " What was inside the locket ?'' She was silent. " Surely, Eleanor, you had better say what it was, to me, here—alone rather than wait to be questioned in —a court of justice." " What do you mean ? Why should I be questioned—in a court —■—'' '■ Evidently you do not understand the bearings of the case," said Philip, with careful coolness. He began to replace the stone in its various wrappings as he spoke, with precision and deliberation, but in spite of his measured words and movements, there was a dark fold between his brows which frightened Eleanor more than his previous vehemence had done. He went on in a coldly explanatory tone. '-This story of Clifford Vargrave's hiislieen artflly planned in order to gain your .sympathy. 1 presume that he told you what the locket contained \Vell, no matter; 1 can guess what lie said. He induced you by some means to conceal Uii: packet from every eye—especially from mine— not, became it contained some portrait, some lock of hair, some trillc of that kind, but because he hud carefully concealed in it the stone which Lo Breton stole from Martin Deveril in South Africa, which seems to have been stolen in turn from Le Breton in England —Martin Deveril'a Diamond '!" Lady Eleanor uttered a faint cry. Her face was as white as the snowflakes that were drifting beneath the windows in the gardonw-iilksoutside. Philip glanced at her keenly and went on. "He has duped the rest of the world. You have not been to blame tor it; naturally you trusted him. But now that you can trust him no longer ''

" But I can'" she broke hi resolutely. " I can, and I will." '• This is impossible. You know as well as i do, although it may grieve you to hear it said, that Clifford \ -irgravo has told you lies about the the packet committed to your charge. You cannot trust him after that." " There is some mistake. 1 will not believe that he is guilty until I hear it from his own lips." "You may do that in time," said Philip drily, " though not perhaps at present." " I shall wso'T hear it !" cries Lady Eleanor, with an indignant flash of her dark eyes. '' He is my cousin ; he would never lower himself so far! There is some terrible mistake, that is all." " I hope for your sake, Eleanor, that it is only a mistake, for, as you say, it would be a terrible one,' said her husband. "Ifit in a mistake, his safety lies in perfect openness on the part of all porsons concerned.' , " His safety V ■• You did not see what it means as yet," said Philip pityingly, " and I would rather not tell you. Let me have the whole truth about the socalled locket from you, Eleanor. 1 promise you to make no unfair use of it. I will do all I can to shield you ' " J want no shielding," she said passionately ; " 1 have done nothing wrong." " No—you did not know," said Philip, still with the accent of tender pity, which made her hot and cold by turns, with half-compre-hended shanio and fear. '"You did not know what you were doing. 1 understand —-but then; are others. The world may not understand. "What do you want me to tell you ?" she asked, flinching under the sound of these words. " First, what was inside the lockttt of which he spoke ? "My likeness.' .

" [ thought so. There -was such a locket in existence, then, with your likeness in it?" "Yes.' , " You gave it him ?"' " Yes. *" A long time ago. Before —before—" " Before your marriage. Yes, of course. And he had broken it accidentally, he said ?" "Yes. He showed it inn It was almost in fragments," said Lady Eleanor, gaining courage under the re-assuring influence of Philip's gentle tones ; " only the. face was left entire ; aud he did not like to leave it about—he thought people might remark it—it was the locket he wore on his watchcliain" Shu stopped and blushed proudly, l'hilip did not look up. "I told him I wished he would leave o(Y woaring it. I did not liko it. That was one reason why I said I would take care of it. I thought he would not want it back. Ho made a parcel of it, so as to keep tho hits together, and gave it to mo to take caro of. He askod mo not to open it, and not to let anyone else have it—or sco it." '' Do you moan that ho mado it into this parcel in your presoneo ? Did you soo him put tho locket, and tho loukot only, into those wrappings'?"' She hesitated. "Ho did it while I was in tho room," she said. " I was not looking.'' " You were in tho room at tho time ?" " I wont away onco for some string. When I came back ho was sealing , up a white paper packet. I remorabor—for I said how neatly ho had fastened it—and we laughed Oil, Philip!" she cried, with a sudden outburst of terror, " I am doino- him no harm by telling you this, am I ? You will not use it against him ?"' "I shall not use it at all. Your evidence will Ijp only a link in the

chain, Eleanor." ■■ What chain T 110 did not answer her immediately. " VargtMve is a clever man." he said almost to himself iu a relleetive tone. '• It was a bold plan; vory nearly a successful one. If I hid not come home so early. I. suppose it would have been a successful one. What I cannot forgive him is his making a tool of you, Eleanor. You illicit have found yourself before now in a vory awkward position." '•Ilowf l; As tho receiver of stolen property. " IJut that has nothing to do with Ohllbrd ! lie is not a "thief !"' who cried, indignantly. '• I cannot tell who has been tho thief. Le Creton stole the: diamond from Martin Deveril ; Lo Breton wiLj murdered, presumably with the diamond upon him : the diamond disappeared. Now we lind it again —in your possession, given to you by your cousin, (Jlillbrd Vargrave, under utterly false pretences. What is the meaning of it all.' It is not for me to say.' " What are you going to do with it? ifowdoyouknowtli.it it is a diamond! You may be mistaken!" •' It has been very minutely described to rue,' , said l'hilip. "I do not think I am likely to be mistaken. You forget that 1 am a diamond merchant.' , " Then what shall you do with it?"' Her voice was low aud broken, her face white, but her eyes glittered restlessly. .Some new inipluso made him withhold, an answer.

" I cannot tell you," he said. And then he slipped die stono into his pocket.

" You must not repeat what 1 have told you," she said, imperiously still. " You must give back the diamond, I suppose, to Martin Devcril, if you are sure that it is his, but you must not tell him "

" You do not know much about English law, Eleanor. I cannot possible keep the matter siccret between Dovcril and myself. The business must be put into the hands of the authorities,"

" And will Clifford—will Clifford ■—be; arrested V "Probably."

" For theft ? For stealing a paltry stone 1 Oh, it is too shameful."

He looked at her in silence. He was thinking how dilHcult it would 1)0 to convince her of what he (Irmly believed —that Clifford Vargrave was not only a thief, but a, murderar. He looked at her agitated face, her troubled eyes, the slender lingers that she was nervously twisting and untwisting, and turned away with a heavy sight. How was it that she could not trust him a little more and Clifford Vargrave a little less? What could he say or do to make her believe in him ? He felt helpless in the presence of! her innocence and ignorance. With an older woman, a woman ot the world, he could have argued the matter, and convinced her reason, perhaps, of Clifford's guilt, but with this childish, unformed, impulsive «oaturo he did not know how to deal. .She would not listen—she wo nM wot understand. ]3ut Eleanor's mind was less illogical than he thought. Hliu whs rapidly drawing her own conelusio'ii from the statements that hei had made. She amazed him presently by a remark which he had not given her credit for. ■• He will be arrested," .she s.iid, ■■ for /./'■•/'l— on my ovii/.i'iiee. You would not have suspeetud him if I had not told you that he gave it to me." " We had better not talk alxuit tin; matter, Kleanor. .Nobody v, ill

blame you," said Philip, in a repressive tone. " But it is true, is it not ? I seo that it is true. Vou need not think of sparing me. I only want to understand." " We have both said as much as i-i necessary,'' returned her husband. " You have nothing to do now with consequences. Tho matter is in my hands. "And it will soon be in tho hands of the police, "I suppose," said Eleanor, with composure which deceived him completely. " You cannot go to London until tomorrow. The last train has gone.' , " Yes, the last train has gone." The husband aud wife looked at each other curiously, intently, for a moment. Lady Eleanor's face seemed changed to stone, it was so strangely white and cold. But her eyes were wild aud bright. "Do you know," she began, quite softly and composedly. " what I shall do if you take that stone to the police and tell your story % I shall be examined. I suppose ; I shall be asked bow I came by Jliirtin Deveril's diamond. Do you know what I shall say?" "You will tell the truth,' , said Philip, sternly. " You will not dare to do anything else." '' Dare ! 1 dare: do more things than you think, Philip. Nobody ever called me a coward yet," said tin; girl, with a, tremulous, scornful laugh. " You say iluit if Clifford gave me the diamond he must have stolen it, do you I Then—Clifford dill tint <»ive me the diamond." •• Eleanor, are you mad V ■' He did not give me the diamond," she repeated firmly. H'..'r lips were deadly pale, but her eyes glowed like burning coals. i: I. picked it up—l stole it myself — anything you like—but remember this one thing—Clillbrd knows nothing of the diamond." "Eleanor! Eleanor! Think what you are doing! Think what you are saying, for Clod's .sake !'' She laughed again." " Shall you aecuso your wife?' , she said. " Shall you bring a story against her which the world is sure to call a wicked slander? Yet—-1. don't know; I daresay tho world will boliovo you, and I—l—shall be punished, but I will never toll—l will never sav again that Clill'ord— gave me the diamond '."

Aud with tho words upon hot , lips she reeled, threw out her hands, and would have fallen to the trround if ho had not caught her in his arms. With a faco almost as white as her own he held her to his breast for a moment or two, and pressed his lips passionately upon her brow, her purple-veined eyelids, her icy-cold mouth and cheek. ■' My love '.' : ho murmured over her. '• My own love! my wife!" But Eleanor could not hoar. "When she camo to herself, she was lying on hor bed in her own room, and her maid was bonding over her. Tho housekeeper and another maid-servant wore also in the room. " Where am I?" she said, faintly, ''l'hilip ! —where is my husband?" •'Hove, my lady. At least—ho was hero just now " " Ho has just gono out of the room/' said tho housekeeper in a soothing voico. <: I daresay ho will ho hero directly, ma'am. Shall I call him hack to your ladyship?" ''No, thank you," said Eleanor, moro faintly than over. " 110 will come back." But tho tears hogau to How down horpalo chocks. Sho know well enough that l'hilip would not return.

The maids exchanged significant "■lances. They surmised that there had been :i fresh quarrol. The terms on which their master and mistress lived had long been matter for curious remark in tho household—it iviis quito certain that Mr Lomiiuo " worshipped the very ground" that his wife trod upon— not equally certain whether my lady regarded him with mere indifference, contempt, or aversion. That she did not lovo him was agreed upon all hands. When tho housekeeper and her attendant had retired, Liidy Eleanor's own maid ventured to make one or two remarks which she hoped might touch her mistress's heart. " I ought to toll my master that you are bettor, ought I not, my lady y" sho began. " No," said Eleanor, languidly. " It does not signify."

" I dare say he has inquired of Mrs llewotson, and does not like to disturb you now," said the girl.

•' I never did see a gentleman in such a way as he was about you, rav lady ; holding you up, and kissing your hands, and looking lit to faint himself, I'm sure : and all for sending off to the doctor,

" Tliiit will do, Allan, I want to sloop," said Eleanor, in ho decided a tone that tin: maid slunk back abashed. Slu: sealed herself in the shadow of the curtain, and was as quiet as she knew how to bo; Imfc presently her mistress again broke Lliu silcuco. " You need not alay. I am quite well now—.l. do not waut anyone with mo.* , ■•It' you please, my lady, my master's ortlers were that one. of us should stay till you were asleep," said Allan, rather ):i;itly. '■ if you ciinnol; do what .1 Loll you, you are not lit for my .service, ' I said Lady Kleanor, her 1 quickness of temper at the slightest show of opposition. "<!o out of ! the room, it I- waul; anything 1 will ring for .i'lowotson." Allnii letireii with a bad sjtju.'C : I but she wii:; no , , afiaiu of Lin.;

threatened dismissal. If Lady Eleanor did .sometimes speak sharply, she had a kind heart, and was a generous mistress; and, after all, Mr Lorraine would not find fault with her if she pleaded " my lady's orders." The slight altercation roused Eleanor completely. When Allan had gone she lay still for some time, reviewing the circumstances and marshalling in array the facts which she had learnt respecting her cousin Clifford and the diamond. Little by little the whole became clear to her. In her own mind she could have no doubt as to (JliO'ord's guilt. His circumstantial story about the locket, how utterly disproved ; his return to the window, and his rash attempt to possess himself of the stone in Philip's absence ; his very words in asking for the packet—(" The stone !" he had cried. "I shall bo a ruined man if it is lost !'') —all showed her conclusively that he knew only too well that the diamond must be concealed if he was to be saved from ignominy and punishment. To Kleanor the shock of this discovery was overwhelming : not because Clifford hid boon her lover in the days before her marriage, but becsuis , ; ot her kinship witli him, her regard for tho honour of the family, her knowledge of the. misery which his disgrace would entail upon his mother and sisters. Certainly she might now revenge herself upon l.ady Yargrave for the wrongs which she had sum;red at I hat majestic woman's hands ; but Eleanor was not small-minded enough to desire revenge. She was more ready to forget her own injuries entirely, and to remember only that her mother's sister had a claim upon her for help and sympathy in the hour of need. But it ivas not of Lady Vargrave that sh-i thought very much at all. It was of Clillbrd himself, and of Philip, that she thought. She had not studied tho cvidonco concerning Le Breton's murder sulliciently to understand quite well that tho discovery of tho diamond might help to clear fHlos Kinglake. She was not thinking about the murder; Olifl'ord, of course, had nothing' to do with that. But the diamond—could it bo true thai. he- had stolon it ? Ho had been in want tit money ; be had spokon of his necessities to her. Ho must havo yielded to temptation in some moment of dire extremity ; it was impossible for her to think that he had not repented of tho crime so soon as it' was committed. But why had lie not repaired it I 1 Perhaps ho had been about to repair it when Philip so cruelly interrupted them. Could he — tho uoiisiu whom she had onco loved so n - e ll—bo nothing butter, nothing nobler and higher, than a common thief?

She lay upuii her bod, weeping-, wrestling with herself, enduring agonies of sluimo iiml remorse as great as though sho and not (Jliff<ml had boon the .sinner: but at last tliu passing grief spent itself n. little, and witii returning , calm thoro came tho question of what | could yet bo done for him ? Was it not possible to savo him from tho consequence of his own action ? And if riiilij) was sternly resolved to do nothing in his favour, was sho entirely helpless ? She could deny all knowledge of the story which shy had told to Philip; but; sho shrank with her whole heart and soul from so desperato an expedient ; was there no other way ? She could try; if she tried, sho could but fail. And even a girl's weak wit and feeble strongth had availed before now to bafllo the pursuer, and to nave the life and honour of ono pursued. CHAPTER XI,. —"A Mhkky Cukist.MAS." Lidy Eleanor rose from her bed, with slow, uncertain movements, and wrapped herself ill her white dressing-L'own, as she had done when she sought Philip in his study on a night that now seemed so very long ago. Sho was about to seek him again, but on a very different errand. Her heart had then been full of yearning and solicitude which she herself hail scarcely understood ; she had wanted to see for herself that he was at home, safely housed, and in his wonted place ; and she had not in the least comprehended the reason of her anxiety for him. Now she knew well enough the meaning of tenderness; but she experienced it no longer. She was afraid of him ; she wanted to cower at his feet and ask him to forgive her for her many olVences against his sense of right; and yet, with the contradictory impulse which sometimes rendered Eleanor so ditlieult a person to deal with, she was determined to have her own way, even though it should be diametrically opposed to his way. If she could only persuade him to be of her mind in the matter ! Sin; hardly dared think of pinnmlu,,, Philip ; and yet she made up her mind to try. Surely she said to herself, if lie saw thai, she was determined not to betray Clillord again, as she had already unintentionally betrayed him ; if he saw that she would rather saerilice herself than allow Olillord to be disgraced, surely then ho would abandon his design of making the matter public ! If ho loved her— ami sometimes it hud seemed as though lie did love her—he would not let her .suffer before the eyes of Iho world. She would be disgraced in his eyes, perhaps, for ever ; but ho would allow Clillord to escape punishment ! And, in Unit:, no doubt, if he loved her, he would forgive her too for setting her heart upon Cli'librd's safety.

Her thoughts, it will be .seen, were somewhat chaotic and unformed. Of one thing only could she be clear—that if Clifford were arrested on her evidence sho should die of .shame. How could sin- sfind and tell the story of his , nckery and deceit ! Knr an yet sue hirdly resented the way in which he had piavr-d upon ln-r credulity ; she had no .hamr for herself, only for him. Ami :■!,.: would go any length rather than 'help to convict and punish him. She who was of the fame blood, as she said t<, h-iself rather bitterly — ho.v could Pluhp 'iMi'il; Viiut she woald 1-juit her ;-.id to his

friends and betray her own kith and kin? She must see him and speak to him

again. She went quietly out into the long gallery, and was struck at once by the gloom'and silence of the house. Everybody had gone back to beil after the subsidence of the fright caused by Lady Eleanor's fainting fit. The lamps were turned lower than usual ; the fire in the great hall fire-place hart sunk to the merest glimmer ; a cold wind seemed to be going through the long passages. A clock iu a distant room struck three. Three o'clock on a cold December morning. Eleanor reflected with a sudden start that it was Christmas Day. All, what a miserable Christmas Day it was sure to be for her ! With what words, what feelings had she and her husband ushered in the day upon which they should have kept; the birth of Christ ! " Peace to men • goodwill upon earth ?" There was no angels' song of peace and goodwill for Eleanor iu the early hours of that unwelcome Christinas morning.

Perhaps it would soften Philip's heavt if she reminded him of the day. She gently tapped at his dressing-room door, but received no answer. Pushing it open she looked in first and then entered —he was not there. A light was burning in his bedroom, but it was also empty. Then he wan in his study still, as lie had been before ? Her heart beat fast and loudly as she opened the study door.

Ho was Micro ; hut he was not working, reading, or writing, .is she generally found him when she made her rare visits to his sanctum. He had done all his work, and had fallen asleep from pure exhaustion in his great leathern armchair. The lamps were burning brightly, the lire was still good, and ths room was warm. f,ady Eleanor waited for a little time, with her hand resting on the open shelf of the bureau.

How weary and worn he looked ! The fold still lingered upon his brow ; his sleep had not Imnished the sndnoss from his f.-iee. Jfis hair, all tumbled and l.nssed across lii.s brow, was beginning to show a little trace ot grey, which had not been there a year before , . He moved restlessly from time to time ;\ once or twice lie spoko in his sleep. Eleanor listened with wide-open eyes ; if he had uttered her name her heart might have been softened towards him ; but unfortunately he did not seem to be dreaming about her. " Pauline !" lie murmured with a heavy sigh. " IVinlino! Pauline !'' Eleanor remembered Clifford's words, and turned away.

What had lie been writing? Her eyes fell on the addresses of the envelopes ; thoy were suggestive. There was one to Mrs Le Breton, mm to Giles Kinglake, one to Cicely Lorraine. There was a message written out on a telegraph form, ready for despatch us soon as it was litdit, to an otlieial at Scotland Yard, anil another to a detective whom Eleanor knew by name. She did not read the messages, but she thought that she could guess their tenor. They were not altogether, however, what he ssup-p-i-ifit. Philip had determined to spare Clill'ord as much as possible, and to give him a little time before communicating' with the police. Even if he were formally censured afterwards for slackness, no one would blame him when his relationship to Lady Elonnor was considered. For her sake Philip had thought he might well strain a point. His telegrams referered only to the- finding of thu diamond.

Lady Kleanor gazed upon the papers with a feeling of sick dismay. They lay open upon Philip's blotting-book ; his keys dangler! from the lock of an open ilrnwor into which one of them had been fitted. And before the desk slumbered I'hilip himself, in tlie heavy .slumber of an exhausted man. He was not dreaming now : lie did not move even when Eleanor said his mime and 1.v.l her hand lightly upon his arm. The depth of bis steep startled her. It was as though ho were absent altogether, and she were free to look at his papers, to ransack bis secret place?, without the restraint of his presence. True, he might wake at any moment, but bis sleep was wonderfully profound. She looked at him narrowly; her eyes grew brighter, and the red came and went in her face as she watched him. One thought had suddenly taken possession of her mind ; she k"ew not whence it came; she seemed to have no power to resist it. Whether it were good or bad, useful or or useless, she did not stop to ask. When was the iVutmmid !

Was it still lying in Philip's pocket, where he had .slipped it while ho talked with hoi , downstairs? Or had ho put it away in one of those looked drawers before; him ? Was it uven in the drawer in which the bunch of keys was hanging ? No, he would scarcely put it there.

And yet she placed her hand gently on the handle. It yielded to her toueh : the key had not been turned. With her eyes still turned on Philip's sleeping face, she pulled the drawer out to half its length—and Philip did not .stir. She looked down, and felt the cold chill of disappointment run through her. The diamond was not there. Nothing but a few papers, neatly arranged in rows, a cheque book, an account book, and some post cards to be seeu. She softly closed the drawer, sighing as she did so.

l'hilip moved slightly. His wife drew back ; thi! colour lied from her face with fear. But it was a false alarm ;he did not wake. He changed the position of his head, and then seemed to slumber still more heavily. Motionless as a

statue stood Eleanor, until his deeper

and more regular breathing convinced her tiiat he was fast asleep. Then she drew near again. The keys were in her hand. Oh, if

only she know whether the atone were still upon his person, or in soino so-called " place of safety '" If only he would slumber—slumber on while she ransacked every nook and cranny of his bureau! Because, as she thought to herself, if she could get the stone ouoe more into her keeping it would be long before the police laid hands upon Clill'ord Yargrave for the _ theft of it ! She would restore it to its owner; she herself would make matters straight; and not even to Philip would tihe ugain acknowledge that she had ever received it from Clifford's lunula. The poor child thought of nothing hut depriving Philip of the weapon which sho had unwittingly placed within his grasp. It did not occur to her that in trying to avoid treachery to (JlUfbnl she was committing a far greater olfence against society at large, by practically helping her cousin to vol. Martin Oeveril of his diamond, dhe would have said that she was trying only to save her cousin from tins consequences of his crime.

Where should Philip keep the diamond —unless he had it about him still—but in the little secret drawer in his bureau where he always deposited hie treasures!' Sin; knew where it was— she had seen it open. Hut what was she secret olthe spring V lluw should she tind it without disturbinj,' Philip? A' l,l , after all, how could she tell that it was there? might touch the spring, open the drawer, 'lind it empty, and have all her pains fur nothing. If Philip '~pencd his eyes and saw her searching his bureau, lie would never forgive her— never. liut if .".he were very gentle—very cautious: "Due must risk everything,"' she said to herself, looking at the bureau with lur'.gry wistful eyes. "I mint try 1 once—just ouee. Thh is th>: right jjlacc

—near this little crack. There was a spring in Auat Selina'a old desk iu the schoolroom that opened iu this way. Yes, I was right." She was right indeed. She had pressed tho right spot with her nimble sensitive lingers, and the little panel had yielded to her touch. The drawer Hew open with the peculiar click which it always gave in opening, a click which caused Kleanor to turu cold with fear, for it evidently reached even Philip's sleeping cars. He started into a sitting posture, looked liur full in the face, uttered two or three unintelligible words, and then, to her amaze and relief, sank quietly hack in his chair, and slept more profoundly than ever. He liar! not seen her. although his eyes had been wide open ; " their sense was shut." His sleep was more like the stupour of delirium than a natural slumber; it was the price lie was paying for many restless nights and days consumed in anxious toil and travel on his friend Kinglake's behalf. He was worn out, and he slept as worn-out men will ofteu sleep when a little of the strain of anxiety has suddenly been removed.

She had remained in the same position, a living image of white dismay, not daring to avert her eyes from his face, until she saw that his movement had not been followed by an awakening. At last she forced herself to turn, to look into the open drawer. And there she saw what she hoped, and yet. half-dreaded, to find—the little packet which looked so commonplace and insignificant, but which contained the stolen diamond, the possession of which linked Clifford Yart>rave with the commission of a crime.

She could not hesitate now. Her lingers closed upon it firmly in spite of their trembling ; she even tore open the paper, which Philip had sealed up, in order to ascertain whether tliu diamond really lay inside it. There was no mistake indeed; the diamond was in her hand. All that now remained was to retire as steadily as she had come, and consider how best she could hide the stone from her husband, who no doubt would be justly incensed when he discovered its disappearauee.

She did not venture to close the drawer. She was afraid of that horrible little click, which evidently penetrated even the inmost recesses of Philip's sleeping brain. She could hardly reach the door, so much did her limbs tremble underneath her, and her exit was by no means as noiseless as her entrance had been. But Philip slept on ; no stern voice called her back, no detaining hand was laid upon her arm. Safely she effected her escape; safely she reached her own room, and bolted the door inside. Then for a brief minute or two she knew not what sho did. But when she came to herself she was grovelling on the floor, with her face bowed down upon the ground, an 1 the stone pressed so tightly m her liiuid that its edges had cut into her tender Hush.

Tlkti: Wiis no time to lo.sn. Philip's stop, Philip's voice mid knock, might be heard al any moment. She dured not go out of her room to hide it, for sho might meet him iu the passage. The fear of him that possessed her just then made her tremble from head to foot at the very thought of his appearance. She must collect her thoughts; she must think of some place iu which to hide the stone. To bo found with it. in her hand would be, to Kloiinor's thinkinir, ivorso th.'iu dcitth. She looked wildly round her. What place hud she which Philip in bis linger would not ransack , ' Ho would liiiivo no box uneinptic'd, no wardrobe or chest of drawers unsoarolied. Of this .she was quite sure. It must be tioine pliioo into which ho would never dream of looking— some plaue, if possible, of which ho knew nothing. Yot was there such a place ? There was one. It was just possible that ho might know of it ; but, she thought, scarcely likely. She hid found one day Unit a knob in tlio oak manUopieco was loose ; it was part of u cluster of fruit, elaborately carved in a short panel near the centre of tho chimneypiece, and it was indeed somewhat dillicult to find when there was any object in finding it. She had been carelessly fingering the carving when this portion of a pomegranate came away in her hand, and she had then seen that then? was a cavity between it and tins wall in which a small object might very conveniently be deposited. Even if the pomegianak; dropped of its own accord, any such small object would not be perceived without direct search for it; and Eleanor was tolerably sure that the earity had not been hollowed out by art, and that

nobody but herself was aware of it. For, upon making some careless remark to tlie effect that the curving seemed to be loosening in 'jertuiti places, Philip had expressed a little surprise, and said that, ho hud never known any of it to bo insecure.

All this clime back to Eleanor's mind with tlio ranidity of u flash of liirbtuing.

She turned eagerly to the mantelpiece, sought and pulled away the? pomeyrauate; then, finding that the hole w.is not so large as she had thought it, she hollowed out the plaster of the wall a little more, placed tlio stone inside il:, covered it up with a few bits of tlio loose plaster and mortar, and re-inserted the piece of carved wood in its proper position. Thn

dust which had fallen on the hearth was

carefully brushed away. No trace of any kind remained to show that ony portion of the woodwork hud been touched. Eleanor stood up, feeling sick and dizzy,

but resolved not to give way until her

task was performed. She unbolted her door, turned down tlio lights, and lay down upon her bed as if to sleep. She had done what she could for Clifford new and Philip must do his worst.

Tho deadly faintnoss that had attacked her before seemed to bo resuming its empire over her senses She felt herself Milking , away she knew not whither; vaguely she fancied that she must be dymg, she felt so strangely cold, and ill, awd nerveless; but presently a sound recalled her to full possession of herself. What was it? Who called her? What had come? Was it Philip with stern threatening looks, or Clifford, reproaching her for all "tho pain she had made him suffer? Or was it it some delusion of the brain, by which she alone beard voices, and music, and even tho sound of words, when nil the world was still. Neither one or the other. She smiled a little at her own folly, and then lay very still. The voices of tho Christmas singers bad fallen upon her ear. They were standing out in the snow in the early Christmas morning—a row of them, all sturdy rustics, singing every Sunday in tho village choir—as it hud been the custom from time immemorial that they should do before the houses of the greater folk of Ladywell ; and with flute, liud violin, and horn, to assist their hoarse voices, they were solemnly singing an ancient Christmas carol: —

"The lirstNoel, tlio Scriptures do say, Was tn certain poor shepherds ill fields as they lay, In Holds us they lay. guaiduifr their sheep, On a cold winter's night, that was so deep, N,,el, Noel. Noel, Noel ! I'.aniis the Iviiin cif Israel/ , Kll'.-imoi , lay dreamily, whilo Uio fiingoi , .-! "cliuiitoil the whole of their little store of enrols — emphasising the choruses from lime to time by u lusty slump of the foot, or a somewhat miusually v.'Uil blowing of u tremendous hum. Shi; scarcely thought of the siugors themselves or of the ineaniiif; of iho carols —her mind seenied coneentnito'l upon one idea. Philip would be awakened, by

tho singers—be would find out his loss, and he would come to her. A knock at the door presently made her quiver from head to foot. But it was only Mm Hewetspn inquiring whether hoi- mistress <v:is disturbed by the carol singers, or wished them to £0 away. " No," Eleanor answered ; "ehe rather liked them than otherwise. She had not been asleep when they came." " 1 wish you a merry Chrintmas, my lady," said Mrs Hewetson, with great dignity, before she left tho room. " Thank you ; a merry Christmas to you, too," Lady Eleanor forced herself to say. But what {a mockery seemed the words to her! She lay still for an hour or two longer ; but when the clocks struck six, and she heard sounds of life in tho house, she could bear stillness and sleeplessness no longer. She rose and dressed herself, pausing; from time to time when she thought ehe could distinguish footsteps in the gallery outside her door. But no one came—not even her maid, who usually entored about seven with her tea and hot water. She scarcely noticed the omission her mind was in. too great a state of tension to pay much heed to trifles. When she was completely dressed she went mechanically to the bed-room door, thicking that sho head a knock. There had boon no knock, but she turned the handle of the door, fancying that she heard Allan's voice outside ; and then she made a sudden discovery. The door was fastened —somebody had locked her in. The angry colour rushed to Eleanor's cheeks and brow. Philip had done this, then ? She was to be kept a prisoner at Philip's pleasure ? The indignity of it restored to her all her accustomed pride and spirit; she recovered her self-com-mand and forgot her faintness of heart. When Philip came he should find her braver and stronger than she bad been the night before ; she would show him no more weakness. She knew what to expect from him now.

She drew a chair up to the fire and waited far his comiug, with her eyes lixed immovably upon the carved pornegi'tinatu fruit which hid her secret. She had not very long to wait. The cold, grey dawn had scarcely broken, the bells tor early service wore just beginning to ring at the village church, when she heard his footsteps at the door, and the key turned in the lock.

She was keenly aware of all his movements, but she would not turn round. She bent her eyes upon the fire, uteadfastly averting them from the mantelpiece, while he entered, fastened the door again behind him, and advanced into the middle of the room. His first action stiirtled her with its unexpectedness. Ho had brought her the cup of tea and thin slices of bread and butter which it waa Allan's usual ortioe to carry to her mistiv.su ; and he moved a small table to her

.-ide so that she tniffht ent and driuk at her leisure. A gaolor might do as much ; it was no kindness, Eleanor thought to herself. And she would need all her strength. So, whilst ho quietly moved to to the window, and drew nxido the curtain, letting in the pale, cold, morning light, she forced herself to driuk the ten, aud even to swallow one or two morsels of the food. And when she had done this, he came and stood beside the, mantlepieee and looked at lur. Hie face was grave, pale, even haggard ; and, us Eleanor could not but observe, it was very stern. She was almost afraid to speak ; but, with courage born of desperation, she made up her mind to address him first. " Why did you look me in :" she asked, hastily, setting , dowu her cup. His iiiiswer was very coldly spoken. •'I had been robbed/'"he said; " and I lurued the key upon the thief.' , (T<> be continued,)