MARTIN DEVERIL'S DIAMOND

Waikato Times, Volume XXXV, Issue 2841, 27 September 1890, Page 4

MARTIN DEVERIL'S DIAMOND

A NOVEL

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AUEIJNI'i SKEGtiAiS'T, Author of "Jacobi's Wife," &c., &c. (JH AI'TKR Ll—Wiiai Cick.i.y Sal». "l)o you know, daddy, I've something to tell you." Have you, Will 'i Out with it then." "1 wonder whether you'll be angry," said Will, roJk'ctively. < Jill's Kinijlake laughed. " I don't fee I as if I could be angry with anybody today," ho said. (■'or the weary while of his imprisonment had co;ne to it natural end. Carnforth'a story had exonerated him ; the prison doors hud opened—lie was free onee more. And this was the first day of his return home, and ho was devoting himself to Will, whom he had not seen since the day of his arrest. As for Will, it seemed as if he never could be tried of gazing at his father with admiring, loving eyes, of holding his hand, and being craaled in Kinglake's strong arms. No one was admitted to their conference. They sot in the library, and rejoiced in each other's presence, and were oblivious of the outer world. Will, at least, was oblivious; his father, perhaps, not so much so.

Giles was .somewhat chaugcd from his old self. There wcio more lines upon his brow, more grey hairs mingling with the brown of his hair and beard than beforo that dreary sojourn of his in Newgate, He had lostllesh, and looked like a man who had uudergone a considerable tiiil of nerve and spirit. His friends wanted liiin to go abroad and take along holiday, but hn. hail returned thorn a somewhat doubtful and discouraging answer. " f have a lot of time to make up,'' lie said, with a shako of bis head. " One has plenty of spare time in Newgate, but one doesn't feel inclined to sit down and write a book there. Better if one did. But I'm all behind, and must wake up, for Master Will's sake." "With Will in his arms, however, he looked like himself again. And as they sat thus, Will had mentioned, with some show of reluctance and reserve, that he had a thing to say unto liia father. " (Jo on then,'' said Giles. " Daddy, you're quite sure you love me " finite."' " Betttor than anybody in]bile world " Well-yes." "That's all right," said Will, in a reassured tone. " Then you wou't mind what I'm goin? to tell you. Father, Miss Cicely Lorraine came to sec me when you were away." " Very kind of her, Will." "I don't think that it was kind at all," said Will sturdily. '• Eh ? Why uot, old boy " Because it was all her fault," said Will, with a sudden catch in his voico; " because if you hadn't been going to see hrt\ you never would have been accused of killing anybody, and—" " Will." The boy stopped short at the sound of his father's voice; it was quiet, calm, gentle as usual, but it was also grave and eold. He caught his breath again, and listened.

" Will. Never let mo hear you say any such tliiuff iigain. it is foolish : it is un?ontloman-like. Miss Lorraine to blame, indeed ! Why, ray dear littlo lad, you must ho dreaming.' His gravity (lied away ; ho laughed a littlo as ho coneluded, and kissed the boy s forehead. " You ro au absurd little monkey," ho paid. " IJiit I told her so," said Will, in a whisper. "Told her so: Told her that it was /»■/ /■>«!> " Yes, father.'' There was a littlo silence. Will flared rot look at his father's face. Tho pause seemed like an eternity to him. "Oh,'" said Giles preaentLy. Then in a dry tone " I suppose you apologised afterwards." " No, I didn't,"' want to either.'" lie rather expeeted to tind himself put do .vn out. of his father's arm upon the sofa after that response; perhaps he would have boen under other cireumstancc, but Giles could not be angry with him just then. "So you've left that part of the business for ne: to do, have you r' he said, somewhat grimly, after another pause.

" You, father?'' "Of course. If you won't apologise for rudeness to a iady, I must." And Giles stretched out his hand for a sheet of writing paper. It was only a feint on iiis part, for lie could not have written without putting Will away from his kuee, and he made no attempt to do this. But Will was of course deceived. " Ob, daddy, "' he cried, I'll do it. I'll tell bur I'm very sorry.'' " And I hopo you are very sorry," said Uiles, trying to manage a little severity of tone. " Yes—J thiuk so.' Will was evidently not very sure. "But—daddy —wasn't it really true':" "Certainly not. No more than it was your own fault, Will. Who lugged mo to go dowu to Ladywell and present Miss Lorraine with that rosary.' The matter cimo in I lie natural course of events: uobodvwas 'to blame' for it. Come, my boy, don't, cry."

For Will had suddenly burst into tears, and was olitmimr to his father's neck as if he could never bear to let him go. Kinylakc felt remorseful for tho words which he himself had spoken without very much thought ; and did not leave oil' pettinsr and soothing the boy till ho was culm ayain. By and bye, however, bo led Will on In talk a little moro about Miss Lorraine. " Was Miss Lorraine very much vexed with you r" he asked. No, I didn't think so," said Will. " She eiied. But we got to be very good friends, although I didu't apologise, father. I asked her to come again." " I shouldn't think she did—if you had been so impertinent. "Oh, but alio did. She liked coming. Sho liked talking about you, daddy." Giles kept silence. " Sho said," continued Will, clinging lovingly to his father's neck, " that'l she thought you were the beat man in al the world. And so you are." " Far from, it, Will." " Yes you are. And she thinks so too. But I could not help telling her what I thought.'' " I'm very sorry you did that, Will," said Giles, gravely ; although he little guessed the lengths to which Will had gono in the communication of his views to Cicely. "It was no business of yours, you know. Miss Lorraine is a friend of mine."

" Ye "J, so fihe aaid, ' murmured Will. " And I told liti you said she was a, sweet fltttl gracious lady." " You're a sad chatloibu.., said Ina father. " 1 Uiall have to wake humble apologias to Miss Lurrauie, I see, for your iiidi:,uelious. ' And then he changed I he l übicct, but he did not easily forget what Will had said. He had bad a good ileal to think of during the last few days : a succession of events of the greatest interest to hiin had naturallv occupied much of his attention. His own release had of course been ono of them ; there had al.-o been Lady Eleanor's disappearance from Lndywell, and Clifford \ argrave's death, caused by his murderous attempt to drown his enemy, Philip Lorraine. Then he had learnt that Lady Eleanor was ill at Hensley's Hotel, and that Mrs Le llretou was nursing her ; and that Philip, if not actually in attendan -e, was at anyrate always at the same place. In the case he could not wonder that lie had hoard nothing very lately from Ladywcll; he had not seen Philip since tho day when he had been obliged to attend in order to give certain evidence to the authorities, and j even Mi Anthony Lorraine seemed to j

have forgotten him. Of course Cicely could not write. He did not want to hear from her, he told himself uneasily ; it would be better for him to hear no more of any of the Lorraines or of Ladywell ; he would go abroad with Will, and make himself happy in some out-of-the-way part of Europe, where nobody wou'd interfere with the quiet life that he loved. The south of France ; Italy; Cairo ; places such as these, would suit Will and himself. He was decidedly out of tune ; a change would do him all the good in the world. He gave his orders to Hannah; he imbued Will with a wild desire to travel in foreign lauds ; he began to pack up his books and papers. And then the thought took possession of him that he could not leave his native country without saying farewell to Ladywell. Was it to Ladywell, or to one its inhabitants 1 He did not say a word to Will about his expedition. But one afternoon—by some freak of fancy he chose the very train by which he had last gone down to Ladywell —he set off for the place with which so many of his life's joys and sorrows were connected, in order to see it, as he said to himself once again—for the last time. He would never come again. Hj reached the station—he did not shirk the familiar road, not the wellknown wood which would henceforth be known as the scene of Le Breton's murder by Joel Bray. As he reached the gate he noticed that a change was already taking place. Some of the ireea were felled— there were piles of branches on the ground ; in the distance the ringing strokes of an axe could be heard. 14 It looks as if she meant tohave it cut down," siid Giles to himself. " Poor Brale Wood! I often searched it for birds' nests and wild orchids in the spring. It will give pleasure to nobody now, I suppose. There is a trail of blood over the springing grasses, and the birds have all been scared from their nests in the alder trees. Better, perhaps, that it should perish from the face of the earth. It is strange how reluctant I feel at this moment to go down that path myself. One would think that I dreaded to meet poor Le Breton's ghost at the cud of it. I must conquer this

He pushed open the gate resolutely and walked down the path with a grave and steadfast face. He recognised the place where he himself had struck Le Breton to the earth for some insulting sentence about Cicely ; lie knew from description the very spot where Joel Bray sprang his enemy, where Clifford Vargrave had watched the fray and afterwards had robbed the dying man, where Caruforth had hidden herself and spied upon them all. He paused when he came near the gate into the park, and looked back. The scene was full of vague, undeveloped beauty. Winter was going; the first tlush of early spring had begun to colour the branches ; the sunlight played amongst the delicate interlacing boughs, between which the faint blue of the sky showed itself with a cloud. It was one of those mild aud cheerful days that come to us when wc are expecting nothing but the rigour of cold east wind and frost and snow, the sunshine of which seems more kindly and more beautiful than the glow* of a July noon, because we have expeeted it less, and scarcely hoped for it at all.

Giles was so much absorbed in the thought that he did not hear the sound of a footstep behind him, the rustle of a woman's dress. He did not move for some time, and it was with a heavy sigh that he at last turned round and laid his hand upon the gate. And then he found himself face to face with Cicely Lorraine. {T<> be continued).