Three years have gone by.
Now three years cover a pretty fair section of time. A good deal can be
got into that space. But the hand of Time, with its changes and
chances, has passed but lightly over peaceful, prosperous Sunningdale.
It has, perchance, added a touch of hoar-frost to Christopher Selwood's
brown beard, but only through the harmless agency of wear and tear, as
that jolly individual puts it. For the seasons have been good, the
stock healthy, and crops abundant--and on the strength of such highly
favourable conditions we may be sure that genial Christopher's
characteristic light-heartedness and general contentment has undergone
no rebate. This can hardly be said to apply to the brace of diminutive
heroes whose thirst for battle was so inconsiderately nipped in the bud
on the memorable night of the attack upon the house. For now they must
find outlet for their martial ardour in fistic combat with their
school-fellows--or in the more risky line of trying how far they can
trench upon the patience of a cane-wielding master. In a word, they are
both at school; a state of life which, in common with youth in general
and Colonial youth in particular, they emphatically do not prefer. The
same lot has befallen Effie, and she, too, is being put through the
scholastic mill, though, thanks to the greater adaptability of her sex,
the process is far less distasteful to her than to those two young
scapegraces, Fred and Basil. So that, save in holiday time, Sunningdale
is quieter than when we saw it last? Is it? There is plenty of small
fry left to create its share of clatter in the place of those absent
under pedagogic discipline.
One change, however, has Time in his course brought round. Marian
Fanning is a bride of two months.
Lucky it was that old Dirk's ineradicable instincts had led him on the
rove into his native wilds; lucky, indeed, for his master that he had to
that extent played football with his trust, though inexpressibly
annoying to his said master when that breach of trust was first
discovered. Under the old Koranna's able guidance it was not many days
before Renshaw was at home again in safety. Nor was the experienced eye
of the former at fault in deciding the wound to be no longer dangerous.
Some of those wonderful remedies known only to the natives themselves
soon put this beyond all doubt, and by the time Renshaw reached home he
felt as strong again as ever.
He had started at once for Sunningdale. With such samples of his late
companion's consummate selfishness and unparalleled treachery fresh in
his mind, it was small wonder that he hardly expected ever to behold
Sellon again. And his expectation was realised. That unscrupulous
rascal was already on blue ocean, with the magnificent diamond, the
superb "Eye" in his possession. No, it was hardly likely that he should
ever see Sellon again.
And he did not care to try. In the first place in disclaiming any
inordinate desire for riches, Renshaw had been stating a bare fact; and
whereas the diamonds in his own possession, when abandoned by his
comrade to die, comprised some large and fine stones, likely to realise
a considerable sum, he could afford to rest content. In the second, to
the bitter disgust and contempt he felt for the man and his treachery,
the news of Violet's flight added a more than severe shock. But this on
the whole was salutary--undeniably so. His idol was shattered. And
then, as bit by bit the whole tissue of heartless duplicity stood fully
revealed, he was forced to admit himself cured.
But the process took time--time and many a bitter heartache. Saddened
and disgusted, Renshaw had resolved to strike out an entirely new line.
He would travel all over the world.
He sailed for England, disposed of his diamonds, realising nearly
seventeen thousand pounds, and even then he probably did not make the
best bargain for himself. Then in pursuance of his plan he had spent
the following two years on the move. England, the Continent, India,
China, Japan, the United States--all were visited, and it was amid the
rolling solitude of the Far West that his heart turned to the free open
veldt of his native land, and among the iron-bound mountains and brassy
skies of Arizona and New Mexico he could almost fancy himself once more
in search of the "Valley of the Eye."
And in the cities and turmoil of civilisation so striking a personality
as that of Renshaw Fanning was not likely to go unnoticed. For the man
who owned that noble, refined face, bronzed with exposure, and when in
repose never altogether free from a touch of saddened gravity--all
manner of pitfalls were laid. Bright eyes beamed upon him, and soft
voices cooed their softest. All in vain, however. His heart was
seared. But eventually when the numbness of the shock did begin to wear
away, it was homeward that the wanderer's heart turned; and in place of
the soiled and dethroned image there arose another; more pure, more
fair, more wholesome; that of sweet Marian Selwood. And under this
influence, the cycle of his wanderings completed, he dismounted before
the garden gate at Sunningdale one evening, and entering the house as if
he were returning home, found Marian alone. And then, almost at his
first words, the latter had realised that it was good indeed to live,
nor was it long before the secret of a lifetime's love was wrested from
her beautiful lips. So now Marian is a two months' bride; making a
final visit to her old home preparatory to settling down upon the
flourishing farm which Renshaw has purchased within a dozen miles of
Sunningdale.
Sometimes he talks of making another expedition to the wonderful Valley.
True, the marvellous "Eye" shines there in the moonlight no more, but
the place holds other stones, and as yet he has only touched the fringe
of its wealth. But Marian's mind is made up against, and her foot is
down on, any such scheme. Has not the mystic jewel proved indeed a
demon's eye to all concerned. They have enough, and life is better than
inordinate wealth. Is he not content with the grisly risk he has run,
so narrowly escaping with his life? And Renshaw, with a laugh, is fain
to answer that he is. Yet peradventure, some day, when the quiver is
full--but we must not anticipate.
Not a word more has been heard of Maurice Sellon or the partner of his
flight--not a word beyond the brief reassurance on the score of her
bodily safety which Violet had had the grace to forward to poor old Mrs
Aldridge by the last boat which left the New Zealand steamer. Not a
word more is even likely to be heard of either. That "the way of the
transgressors is hard" may be a good and edifying axiom for all Sunday
school purposes, but it is in no wise borne out by the experiences of
real life. So it is highly probable that Sellon and Violet are in some
safe and withal comfortable retreat in the New World, flourishing like
the green bay tree, while enjoying to the full the abundant, if
treacherously gained, results of the former's expedition in search of
"The Valley of the Eye."
The End.