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NATIONAL LIBRARY
BIBLIOTHEaUE NATIONALE

u;;

Zt^

aNADA

THE AYRES OF STUDLEIGH.

:V ■/ %

THE AYRES

OF STUDLEIGH

ANNIE S. SWAN

(Mrs BURNETT SMITH)
AUTHOR OF 'aldersyue;" "sheila;" " s t vkua's ; "

" MAITLANO OF LAURIBSTON," ETC.. ETC.

TORONTO, CANADA

VVILLl-AM BRIGGS

EDINHUROH and LONDON
OLIPHANT. ANDERSON & FERKIER

Entered according to tha Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year one thousand
eight hundred and ninety-one, by William Bkiggs, in the Olfice of the Minister
of Agriculture, at Ottawa.

c o N r i: N T s.

CHAP.

I. In CoNFinRNTR . . ,

II. Tim PORTMAYNK CrEKD .

III. Thk .Soldier's Wooing .

IV. DiKKKRENCK OF OPINION .

V. " 1 ILL Death us do Part "
VI. Dark Forebodings
VII. Thk Bursting of the Storm
VIII. In Deadly Peril
IX. Thk. Klight from Delhi
X. The Agony of Suspense
XI. Nkws from a far Country
XII. Home to England

XIII. A Last Interview AT Studleigh

XIV. A Surprise for Mr Gillot
XV. Cousins ....

XVI. Mr Gillot's Errand

XVII. In Vain

XVIII. " Kind Hearis are more than Coronets

rAGK

25
34
42

5»
60

O9
76

«5
94
101
109
118
127

i3(>
145
»54

Contents,

CHAr.

XIX. A New Ambition . . . .

rAn>
163

XX. A Happv Houskholii

I7>

XXI. In BrnKK.NBs.s oi- Soul .

180

XXII. Hopes AND Kkaks . , . .

188

XXllI. Sybil's Ketb ....

196

XXIV. Love's Younc Dream

205

XXV. The Next Day ....

215

XXVI. Two Couples . . . . .

224

XXVII. On Active Skrvice

233

XXVIII. ISANDIILWANA ....

241

XXIX. Rorkk's Drift ....

249

XXX. The News AT IIoMB . . . .

257

XXXI. A Soldier's Talk

265

XXXII. A Wounded Heart

274

XXXIII. Cousins .....

283

XXXIV. Till Death us DO Part .

292

XXXV. The Physician's Verdict

301

XXXVl. Husband AND WiFK

310

:k::-A

:S^P^''''\'

THE AYRES OF STUDLEIGH

CHAPTER I.

IN CONFIDKNCE.

|OVVARDS the close of a fine, mild February day,
w^l>0 '^° gentlemen were enjoying a cigar on the
^#\IX^ terrace behind the mansion-house of Studlcigh,
the Warwickshire seat of the Ayres. Ayre was*
an old name in the shire — a name honoured and be-
loved, synonymous with integrity and highest principle.
The family history of the Ayres bore a fair record of
grave responsibilities wisely carried, great opportunities
turned to the best account, wide-reaching influence used
wholly for good. These attributes were strikingly char-
acteristic of the Squire, who with his soldier brother
paced the terrace that sweet spring day. They were
strikingly alike, although the elder wore a short-pointed
beard and the younger's face was bare, and his appearance
quite boyish. But he had a fine figure and a soldierly
bearing, as became a lieutenant in the British Army. He
wore his uniform, and it suited him rarely well. Both were
tall, but the master of Studleigh, William Ayre, had a slight
stoop in his shoulders, and his face wore a peculiar look of

1^1

The Ayres of Stiidleigh.

delicacy. His skin was as fair and smooth as a girl's, and
on his high white brow the blue veins were perhaps too
visible. His expression was singularly mild and gentle ;
there was even a womanish sweetness about his mouth.
Yet the face did not lack strength ; and the clear, blue eye
had a direct and fearless glance which indicated an honest,
straightforward soul. The younger had all these attributes,
wi.h perhaps an added touch of fire and strength. He en-
joyed splendid health, and carried suggestion of his perfect
strength in every gesture. There were times when William
Ayre looked at his brother with a touch of envy ; he had
never in his thirty years of life known what it was to be
perfectly well. Such health as he possessed was carefully
cherished, and with great and unremitting care his physicians
assured him he might live to be an old man.
"Will, I want to tell you something."
The young lieutenant tossed away his cigar, and turned
his blue eyes on his brother's face with a half-eager, half-
hesitating glance.

" Something very particular, Geoffrey ? "
"Yes."

" I don't feel as if 1 wanted to hear any more particular
news, Geoff. It is enough for me in the meantime that you
are ordered to India."

" Oh, that's nothing. What's India in these days ? "
asked Geoffrey, with all the fearlessness of youth.

" I want to tell you, Will, that I'm not going out alone if
I can help it."
" Are you not ? "

An amused smile dawned on William Ayre's lips, as he
somewhat idly asked the question. He was Hstening to his
wife singing in the music-room, and so had his attention
directed for a moment from his brother's words.

" Come, let us go down the avenue a bit," said Geoffrey,
a trifle impatiently. " If you stand here Emily will have
you enticed in presently, and I want you."

In Confidence. 9

He linked his arm through his brother's, and led him
down the terrace steps, the full, beautiful melody of Lady
Emily's song following them as they walked.

" I really think Emily's voice is growing more exquisite,"
said William Ayre, dreamily, for music was a passion with
him, and he could scarcely resist its charm.

"She sings well, certainly; if singing will make you happy,
Will, you ought to be in paradise," said Geoffrey, with a
slight bitterness, which, however, his brother did not notice.

" Well, what is this weighty something you are yearning
to confide to me ? " the elder asked presently, when they
were quite beyond hearing of the song.

" Perhaps it will surprise you very much, perhaps not,"
said the lieutenant, bluntly. " I'm going over to Pine Edge
presently to ask Rachel Abbot to marry me."

"What?"

"Quite true. Is it possible. Will, that you haven't a
suspicion of my interest in that quarter ? "

"Well, I've heard Emily hint at it, certainly, but I
laughed at her. Rachel Abbot ! Geoffrey, lad, are you not
making a mistake ? "

" I don't think so. Is yours the conventional objection
such as I know Lady Emily entertains ? " asked Geoffrey,
quietly. "A farmer's daughter is unfit, of course, in the
world's eyes, to mate with an Ayre of Studleigh."

" It is not that Geoffrey, though no doubt the world will
have its say," returned William Ayre, quietly. " Other things
being equal, that need not be an insuperable obstacle, for
Rachel Abbot is a lady, and I admire her very much."

"Thank you. Will," interrupted the other with quick
gratitude.

" I suppose you have some reason to believe that she will
accept you ? "

" I think so. I am sure of it."

" And would you propose to marry at once ? "

"Yes, and take her to India, if she will go."

The Ayres of Studleigh.

I i

" Take her to India ! Would that be a wise step, and
there is the old man to consider ? Abbot must be seventy,
if he is a day."

"Oh, but he is bale and hearty still," returned Geoffrey,
lightly. " Besides, I think he will not stand in the way of
his daughter's happiness."

"Well, if you marry, Geoff, I should certainly say take your
wife with you. But there are a great many things to consider,
many more than I suppose you have even given a passing
thought to. Anglo-Indian society, especially of the military
order, is very exclusive. What do you suppose the officer's
haughty wives will have to say to poor Rachel ? I am afraid
she would find herself on the outside of the social circles."

"Why? If they know her only as Mrs Geoffrey Ayre>
there will be no question of her position," said the lieu-
tenant, hastily. " And they need know nothing more."

"They need not, but they will^'' answered the elder
brother with a significant smile. "These military stations
are a perfect paradise for the gossip-monger and the tale-
bearer. Very probably Rachel's antecedents will be dis-
covered and discussed before your arrival, and her place
assigned to her. If I am right in thinking her to be a
particularly high-minded and sensitive woman, it will go
!iard with her in Delhi, Geoff, and she will suffer the most
on your account."

" I had no idea you knew so much about her, Will," said
Geoffrey, in genuine astonishment. " But though her father
is a farmer, Christopher Abbot is not q'jiie like the ordinary
farmer. The family is as old as our own, and has always
been in Pine Edge."

" That is true. Well, perhaps, I have drawn the darker
side of the picture, and Rachel herself is sweet and lovely
enough to disarm all prejudice," said the master of Stud-
leigh, generously. " But th'„>re is something else to be
considered. India is in a very disturbed state. I heard
Sir Randal Vane the other day say that he anticipated a

In Confidence.

rebellion every day. At any time you may be on active
service, Geoff, and war in India differs in some ] irticulars
from war in other places. In the event of a successful revolt
by the natives, the ladies at the stations might be in fearful
peril."

" Oh, Will, how you croak. Who is going to be nervous
about a handful of wretched Sepoys ? I anticipated a great
many objections on your part, but not one of those you have
named. I confess my chief fear was that you would imagine
yourself lowered by such an alliance. Emily will be furious,
I know."

" Emily has her family pride, I allow, but it is hers by
heritage," said William Ayre, indulgently, for in his eyes his
handsome wife could do no wrong.

" ' The daughter of a hundred Earls,
You are not one to be desi)ised,' "

hummed the lieutenant, with mild sarcasm. " Well, I con-
fess I don't care a fig for Emily, begging your pardon, old
fellow, as long as you don't mind.'

"Well, perhaps I mind a little," returned William Ayre,
with his quiet smile. " I would rather your ambition had
pointed a little higher. Perhaps one day you may be master
of Studleigh."

" And the heir yonder, to say nothing of the brothers and
sisters who may come," laughed the lieutenant. " Besides,
you will be the white-headed Squire, perhaps, long after I
have fallen before the enemy's gun or sabre, covered with
wounds and, I trust, glory. Do you wish me good luck,
then, Will, from your heart, in my mission to Pine Edge ? "

In their talk they had strolled off the wide avenue and
crossed the park to a gate which led into the open fields.

It was a fine mild evening, the dusk tenderly falling after
the bright radiance of the sun had faded. The air was very
s^ill, and seemed laden with the promise of the spring. The
trees had tender tufts on their bare boughs, and in sheltered
nooks the early flowers were in bloom. Somewhere, ixideed,

The Ayres of Studleigh,

' I

1 \

I )

iiii

the sweet violet was already giving its hidden and exquisite
fragrance to the evening hour. It was a pleasant scene upon
which their eyes looked, a fertile English landscape, with its
rich mosaic of green and brown, its varied undulations, and
its peaceful homes, a scene which has countless parallels in
old England, but which never palls upon the eyes of those
who call it home.

To William Ayre that scene was one of the fairest in the
world. It was his own patrimony — every field and tree and
breadth of sunny meadow, reaching to the far hills, was his,
and every foot of the ground was precious in his sight. He
had taken up his birthright as a sacred trust, to be held for
the honour of the dead and the sake of those to come. En-
tering upon his heritage in such a spirit, and seeking in every
word and action to be a blessing to the place and the people,
it was no wonder that his name was spoken with love and
reverence which knew no bounds. They did not expect
him to live long. Such goodness, they said, was incompat-
ible with long life — they said his good deeds were prepara-
tion for another life. There may have been truth in their
verdict too, yet it was certain that William Ayre had a large,
sweet, sympathetic soul, a high regard for honour and in-
tegrity, a shrinking from everything ignoble or wrong, and he
was singularly free from arrogance or pride, which is some-
times seen in those who have less to boast of. This was evi-
denced by his reception of his brother's love story. Although
Geoffrey had expected nothing but courtesy and forbearance
at his brother's hands, in this, as in every other matter upon
which he had consulted him, he was secretly amazed at the
heartiness of his manner. It had betrayed surprise, cer-
tainly, but neither annoyance nor disgust. And his praises
of Rachel Abbot had been generous enough to send the hot
flush of gratitude to his young brother's face. Never so
long as he lived would Geoffrey Ayre forget these unsolicited
words of appreciation — all the more prized that they came
unsought.

/// Confidence.

upon
at the

"Why should I not wish you well, Geoff? You are my
only brother, and I have never been anything l)ut proud of
you," he said, with that gracious smile which was like a
benediction. "If I tell the truth, I am prouder of you
than ever, because you have all the courage of a true and
unselPsh love."

Geoffrey stretched out his hand quickly, and gripped
his brother's, but spoke no word. His impulsive heart was
indeed full.

"And if Rachel is to be my sister you will tell me to-
night, and I shall go to Pine Edge to-morrow," continued
-William Ayre. " In the meantime, I suppose I may tell
Emily?"

" If you wish, W^ill; but don't let her prejudice you against
us. I — I think she does not like Rachel. I cannot tell
why."

"She thinks her proud, I believe," returned the other,
musingly. " It is a curious thing which has always in-
terested me how slow good women are, sometimes, to ap-
preciate each other. But if Rachel Abbot really becomes
your wife, Geoff, I hope she and my wife will be like sisters.
It is rather a disappointment to me that there is so little
sympathy between Emily and you."

"No doubt it is my blame," said Geoffrey, quickly,
touched by his brother's look and tone. " I am only a
rough-and-ready fellow. Will, more used to the freedom of
the barracks than to my lady's bower."

"Nevertheless, Emily is secretly proud of her soldier
brother," said William Ayre, as he laid his hand affectionately
on his brother's shoulder. " And if she seems to be less
hearty than you would like about this affair, try to remember
it is because she thinks there are few noble families in Eng-
land who would not be proud to ally themselves with the
Ayres. Au revoir^ then, and may all good luck attend
you."

So William Ayre tried to prepare his brother for what he

The Ay res of Stitdleigh.

W I!

felt certain would ensue — Lady Emily's haughty displeasure
over such an alliance. He was conscious of a strange feel-
ing of sadness and despondency as he slowly retraced his
steps alone towards the house. His own domestic relations
were of the happiest, because he adored his wife, and his
gentle disi)osition never clashed with her haughtier will.
Hut he knew her to be a woman of matchless pride. She
was an Earl's daughter, and in marrying i)lain William Ayre
of Studleigh may have thought herself taking a step back-
ward on tiie social ladder. It had been a love-match, how-
ever ; and whatever her demeanour to others. Lady Emily
was an affectionate and lovable wife. There was a slight
constraint in her relations with Geoffrey. His quick, proud
spirit could not brook her arrogance ; he felt slights where
William saw none, and when probably none were intended.
It was well for the peace of Studleigh that Lieutenant Ayre's
furloughs should be few and far between, and that he should
not for any length of time be a member of that family circle.
To the Squire this was a grief of no ordinary kind. He
loved his wife, but his brother was not less dear to him.
There was a touch of fatherly regard in his deep love, foi
Geoffrey had ever looked up to him as a wise counsellor,
although there was but slight disparity in years between
them. He could not understand how the two, each so
lovable, could not be true and close friends. It was so
delicate a theme to handle in conversation, that the Squire
could only mourn over it in secret, and hope that time
would mellow the relationship between his wife and his
brother, and bring about a happier state of matters.

He was not sanguine about Lady Emily's reception of the
news ne had to give. Once or twice she had remarked
upon Geoffrey's frequent visits to Pine Edge, and the curl
of her lip, the very inflection of her voice, indicated that
she thought it no place for him to spend his leisure.
William did not believe she had any idea that Geoffrey's
admiration for Rachel Abbot had so deepened that it had

A \

In Confidence.

become the desire of his \\iit to make her his wife. He
knew that the news would not gratify her. He shrank in
imagination from her few measured, stately words, from the
cold glance of her flashing eye, from the curve of her
beautiful mouth. With all these in anticipation, and op-
pressed besides with a vague, haunting dread of coming
evil, the Squire of Studleigh slowly approached the house.

Ill

i r

CHAPTER II.

THE PORTMAYNE CREED.

;= !

^JHE large windows of the drawing-room were open,
^1 and on the step which led down to the terrace
stood Lady Emily Ayre, humming the refrain of
the last song she had sung. She was a striking
and rarely beautiful womaii, with a pale, refined, exquisite
type of beauty but seldorr seen. Her figure was very tall
and slender, her carriage graceful and stately, her white silk
gown, with the half-open corsage, showed the perfect curve
of neck and throat. Her face was, perhaps, too colourless,
but the skin was clear and pure and soft, and the features
absolutely faultless. The profile turned to the window was
clear-cut and patrician, the eyes large, calm, and lovely, of
hue as blue as the summer sky ; her hair was bright golden,
and was like a crown to her perfect face. She was con-
scious of her own beauty, but not vain of it ; she wore it as
her natural right, the heritage of a house famous through all
time for the beauty of its ladies. There was a suggestion of
coldness about the whole woman. The white gown falling
in spotless and stately folds to her feet, the cold gleam of
the diamonds in her golden hair, the faint slight smile on
her proud lips as she watched her husband approaching,
geemed to indicate that the Lady Emily Ayre was a woman

The Portiitayne Creed.

who prided herself in her absolute self-control, in her calm,
unruffled bearing, her measureless scorn for the littleness of
mind which allows itself to betray nervousness and haste.
Her manners were absolutely perfect — cold, calm, icily
courteous, after the order of her race. Sometimes, though
not often, she unbent to her husband, and gave him a
glimpse of her inner self which made him happy for days.
In the nursery, when no one was by, the heart of the woman
was revealed before the unconscious smiles of her first-born
son. Her love lor her husband was a calm, steady, un-
demonstrative affection, which found expression in fulfilling
to the uttermost the gracious functions of the mistress of
Studleigh ; her love for her child was a passion which filled
her whole soul, a passion without reason or limit, which in
years to come was to cause herself and others bitter
sorrow.

" Where have you been, William, and where has Geoffrey
gone ? " she asked, as her husband came up the steps.
"It is an hour since I left you in the dining-room."

" Pardon, mia," he said, and bending forward touched
with his lips the round, exquisite arm. " We have been
discussing grave matters, and Geoffrey has gone to Pine

Edge."

Instantly her expression changed, and her lips curled

in high disdain.

"Why does he spend all his leisure there? It is no

compliment to me, William, that your brother should be

impatient to be gone from my dinner-table to the society of

a yeoman's daughter."

" There is excuse for Geoffrey, dear, since it is the society

of his future wife he seeks," William Ayre answered,

candidly. " Come in, for the dews are falling, and I

want to talk this matter over with you."

She turned from him and withdrew into the inner room,

where the lamps were lit, and the coffee on the table.

Ill

The Ayres of Studleigh,

I !

" You may go, Hodgson ; we shall wait upon ourselves "
(she said, briefly, to the servant waiting with the cofTee-
tray) ; and when the tray was put down, busied herself in
putting sugar in the cups. Her h land closed the long
windows, and joined her in the s? .jr room.

"Thank you, my love," he said, as he took his coflee
from her hand. " Sit down now, and let us talk. Geoffrey
has gone to ask Rachel Abbot to be his wife."

" His wife ! "

Lady lunily turned slightly round with a swift rustle of
her silken skirts, and looked at her husband with wondering
eyes.

" Has his folly gone so far as that ? "

" Geoff does not think it folly, I assure you, Emily. I
see that he is sincerely attached to Rachel Abbot."

" Did he tell you that he was going to Pine Edge on
such an errand ? "

" Yes; I have just parted with him at the coppice gate."

" And what did you say to him ? "

" What could I say, Emily, except, wish him God-speed
in his wooing?" asked William Ayre, smiling slightly,
deceived by the serenity of his wife's face and the calmness
of her speech.

" You — you wished him God-speed, William ! " she
re-echoed. " Surely your folly transcends his, for he may
be supposed to be blinded by a foolish passion," she said,
quickly. " Do you mean to say that it will please you to
see your only brother so degrade himself?"

" Your choice of a word is not very happy, Emily," said
W^illiam Ayre, quietly. " It is not a word to use in
connection with any pure and good girl, least of all, in
regard to Rachel Abbot, who is a gentlewoman in mind
and manners, whatever her birth may be."

"There is a dispatch for him to-night," she said,
" announcing, I suppose, his promotion ^ at least \ see by

The Portmayue Creed.

the evening paper that he has been gazetted captain,
scarcely a matter for congratulation, I think, now''

" Why ! "

" Because, the higher the height the greater the descent,"
she answered, coollv. " It will be octter if we do not
discuss this matter, William. It is utterly disgraceful that
Geoffrey should have allowed himself to be inveigled in
such a manner by these Abbots, and that you should all
along have stood calmly by and witnessed, nay encouraged
it, is not only a mystery, but a wrong, wnich I can scarcely
regard lightly. If you have no respect for your own name,
you might have given a thought to me."

She spoke quietly, without any betrayal of passion, and
yet he felt that her bitter anger was roused. Her face was
paler than its wont ; her lips trembled as she spoke, and her
bosom rose and fell quickly under the soft laces of her
gown. But William Ay re was equal to the occasion,
because his sympathy was wholly with his brother.

"It ought to be a matter of congratulation with us,
Emily, that Geoffrey has behaved so honourably to Rachel
Abbot. We have not very far to go among our neighbours
to find more humiliating sorrow than this need be to us.
Except for the accident of her birth, Christopher Abbot's
daughter is as truly a lady as any of my acquaintance."

" I thank you for the comparison and the compliment.
Mr Ayre," said his wife, and she swept him a little curtsey,
while her lip curled in a slight, cold smile.

" Emily, you are not wont to be so uncharitable," he said,
still quietly, though his manner betrayed his vexation. " Is
it not some personal dislike of Rachel Abbot ? "

" On my part ? "

She swept round to him as she asked the question, and
drew herself up as if the very suggestion were an insult.

" Yes ; Geoffrey thinks you do not like her."

" Geoffrey is needlessly concerned, you can tell him. /

lit

The Ayres of Studleigh.

can have no dislike to Rachel AI)l)ot. She is too far
removed from mc even to occasion me a thought."
" You are very hitter, Emily."

"Am I ? Not more so, I think, than the occasion merits.
When I married you, William, I did not dream that I
should be called upon to meet your tenants on equal ground,
and I refuse to do it."

" Does that mean that, in the event of Geoffrey marrying
Rachel Abbot, you will not countenance her ? "

"You would not ask me, I think, William, to receive her
here ? " she replied, in her iciest tones.

Then the Squire of Studleigh's rare anger rose —
" I must say, Emily, you are going too far," he said, with
most unusual haste. "Although the Abbots are my
tenants, their family is as old and honourable as mine, and
their tastes are as refined. You were ama/.ed at the refine-
ment and elegance of Pine Edge when I took you there
after o"r marriage."

" I was. I suggested, you may remember, that it was a
little too much an assumption on the part of those who
earn their bread by the sweat of their brow. And Rachel
Abbot received me then as if the honour of the visit was
mine, and not hers. I have never forgotten it, and I never
will."

" It is as I said, Emily, you are prejudiced against
Rachel Abbot, and will not look at the matter from a just
standpoint," he said, with a sigh. " But we need not
grudge poor Geoffrey his happiness, even if it is to come
through the daughter of a tenant farmer. It is hard, after
his long absence from us, to be ordered to India at the
very beginning Oi* his furlough. I have a strange presenti-
ment that he will never return."

"Nonsense, William, he will grow lazy and indolent in
Delhi, like all our Indian officers. Does he intend to take
his bride out with him, then ? "

The Portmayne Creed.

" Yes, if she will go."

"Oh, she will go fast enough," said Lady Kmily, with a
short, hard laugh. " It would bo too great a risk to let
him go free. Well, I do not envy Mrs (leoffrey Ayre left
to the tender mercies of Lady Kandal Vane and her
exclusive circle. I question if even Geoffrey's devoted love
will he able to stand that test."

" You could do a great deal to make her experience of
Indian society agreeable, Emily," said the Scjuire, involun-
tarily.

" In what way ? "

"You might ask Lady Vane to meet her here. It is
possible they may be going by the same steamer."

" I have told you, William, that I decline to countenance
this affair."

" Not even for my sake ? "

She hesitated a moment, not that there was any waver iig

in her mind, but because she did not wish to give a direct

refusal. In a sense she was a just woman, she appreciated

her husband's habitual gentleness and consideration for her,

it pained her to give him paui, or to inflict upon him any

disappointment, however slight. But on this point she

was inexorable. She deemed that her position and her

parentage demanded that she should take up an unequivocal

stand. She could 7ioi receive Rachel Abl)ot into the house

on equal ground, welcome her as a sister to be honoured

and loved. The condescension would be too great. The

law of her order forbade it, and she had been reared to

consider that law sacred and binding. It is certain,

however, that a deep-rooted and strange dislike of Rachel

Abbot gave strength to her decision. She recalled the tall,

stately, graceful figure, the grave, calm face, the deep,

lustrous eyes, the perfect grace and dignity of mien, the

unconsciousness of any inferiority of position in her

demeanour towards her^ Lady Emily, who belonged to one

The Ayres of Stndhigh.

of the proudest families in England. In that short
interview Rachel Abbot had erred unpardonably. She
had been kindly, courteous, hospitable to the Squire's
aristocratic wife, but perfectly self-possessed, and neither
humble nor deferential. It was not pride, however, though
Lady Emily regarded it as such ; it was simply unv':onscious-
ness that difference in rank demanded any special re-
cognition at her hands. Perhaps Miss Abbot had been
spoiled and petted by the Squire's folk until they had
forgotten the distinction between them. There had always
been a warm and close intimacy between Pine Edge and
Studleigh. More than once an Abbot and an Ayre had
sat side by side a. Eton, and been undergraduates together
at Oxford, for centuries of thrift and well-doing had
accumulated good money in the Pine Edge coffers, and
there had never been a spendthrift or a ne'er-do-weel among
them. There was no heir now to fill Christopher Abbot's
shoes — he dwelt alone in the old house, a widowed man
with one child, a daughter, who was the sunshine of his
life. There never had been a large family in Pine Edge.
Christopher himself was an only son, as his father had been
before him. There had been no daughter born to the
house for a century before Rachel.

" Not even for my sake, Emily?" repeated the Squire,
anxiously, and his tone smote her to the heart.

" You make it hard for me, William, but I cannot do it,"
she said, slowly. " I have others to consider. You know
what my people think on such questions. I confess, though
I am not a nervous woman, I do not like to contemplate
my mother's reception of this news. She would be in-
dignant even at so slight a hesitation on my part. She
would be quick to tell me that my duty was absolutely
clear."

" I understood, dear, that when a woman married she
might in a sense be expected to concuv a litde in her

The Portmayne Creed.

husband's views, at least to give them some slight con-
sideration/' said William Ayre. " Perhaps it is not to be
expected that I should entertain sentiments so lofty i.s the
Countess of Portmayne," he added with mild sarcasm,
" yet I cannot but think my own views are more in keeping
with the broad spirit of charity the Bible itself teaches. If
Geoffrey truly loves this woman and she loves him, I think
it is my duty, and yours, too, for my sake, to send them
on their way with words of love and hope."

She slightly shook her head and made a movement
towards the door.

" Is there no hope, then, Emily ? If the marriage takes
place at all, it must be immediately. Will you not at least
countenance it with your presence ? " he asked, eager for
some concession.

" I cannot tell. I am anxious to do my dut^. I shall
write to my mother to-night," she answered somewhat
hurriedly, for she felt the appealing glance of his eye, and
it distressed her to appear so obdurate. She gave him no
chance of further pleading just then, for with a murmured
excuse that the child would require her in the nursery she
left the room.

William Ayre sighed as he heard the silken skirt sweep
through the doorway. He was both hurt and disappointed,
and the idea that she should deem it needful to consult
Lady Portmayne before deciding a matter which was of
moment to them alone, caused nim a sense of irritation,
which his wife's august kindred had too often awakened
already. They were distinctly condescending in their
behaviour to the Squire of Studleigh, and he had an
intuitive feeling that they regarded their second daughter
in the light of a social failure because she had married
him. Even to his gentle nature such a thought was galling,
and he found it more conducive to his peace of mind not
to come too much in contact with them. A certain amount

24 The Ayres of StHcileiglt.

of intercourse was inevitable, for Lady Emily was devoted
to her own people, and thought they could do no wrong.
Her mother was her pattern, and though it was an immacu-
late pattern so far, it had few touches of kindliness or
gentleness of heart to beautify it.

It was the prayer of William Ayre's life that his wife
would be saved from such a soulless character.

1 1

devoted
wrong,
immacu-
liness or

his wife

CHAPTER III.

THE soldier's WOOING.

m
M

(INE Edge was rightly named. The house stood
upon the abrupt face of a wooded slope, and
overlooked the whole valley of the Ayre, and
the fine old park of Studleigh. It did not
look like a farm house, especially as the out-buildings and
the barnyards were quite behind, and not visible, except
from the north windows. It had originally been a low,
flat-roofed house, built in cottage style, but roomy and
commodious within. From time to time it had been added
to — a room here, and a larger window there — indeed, it
had assumed the dimensions of a small mansion. These
improvements had, as a rule, been made by the Abbots
themselves, at their own expense, but sanctioned by the
Squire. They had been so long in the place that they
looked upon it as their own. The result was as picturesque
and desirable a residence as any man could wish. It was
built very near to the edge of this woody hillock, but there
was room before the house for a belt of green sward, which
was close and rich .is finest velvet. The house was overrun
with creepers, and ti>.e sunniest gable had a fine old rose
tree clambering upon it, which was seldom without blooms.
The dining-room was large for a farm house, because, when

!!|il

The Ayres of Studlcigh.

Christopher's father married, he had built a new drawing-
room, and thrown the old one into the dining-room. It
had two long windows — one opening upon the little lawn,
and the other looking right into the pine woods. The
furnishings were old and heavy and sombre ; the carved
sideboards had stood in Pine Edge for generations. The
pictures were old, too — family portraits, with one or two
modern landscapes, all good and valuable as works of art.
A great silver uowl stood in the centre of the table filled
with roses, and two quaint china jars on the mantelpiece
held some graceful sprays of the dogberry and wild grasses.
It was a sombre room ; the crimson velvet hangings at the
window were not relieved by the customary lace beside
them, they hung in straight, rich folds from the heavy gilt
cornice, and were not fastened in any way. Yet there was
a subdued and pleasant charm about that room which every
one felt. The drawing-room was very pretty, filled with
light and bright beautiful things ; but the sombre window
which looked out upon the pine wood was Rachel Abbot's
favourite seat in the house.

She was sitting there in the pleasant gloaming that even-
ing, with her work lying on her knee, and her hands folded
above it. Of what was she thinking us her eyes looked into
the dark shadows of the pines ? We may look at her in her
reverie undisturbed. She was leaning back in her chair,
and her cheek touched the rich velvet of the hangings. The
warm t'nt against her cheek seemed to give it a tinge of
colour not usual to it. Rachel had not a fair complexion.
She was dark skinned, like her father ; but it was a clear,
healthy hue, and it was in keeping with the masses of her
dark hair, and the fringes of her eyelashes. The eyes
themselves were wonderful, of that strange, uncertain, lovely
hue which, for lack of a better name, v/e call hazel. They
were very deep and liquid, not mirroring every passing
thought like lighter orbs ; you had to look into their depths
to find Rachel Abbot's soul. Her mouth was very strong

The Soldier's Wooing,

and resolute, yet indescribably sweet ; the whole expression
one of power and thought, yet suggestive of the tenderest
attributes of womanhood. She wore a grey gown of some
soft, fine material, without a touch of any colour to relieve
it, but there was no suggestion of anything lacking. Every-
thing Rachel Abbot wore became her, and seemed to be
part of herself.

Such was the woman Geoffrey Ayre had chosen, and as
she sat there she looked fit enough to reign in Studleigh, ay,
even in Lady Emily's place. It was because Lady Emily
had recognised her superiority — had been compelled in her
own mind to acknowledge her a queen among women, that
all these years she had been silently jealous of her,
although the mere hi it that she could be jealous of any
woman, least of all a farmer's daughter, would have sent the
flush of pride to the patrician's haughty cheek. In her own
mind, too, so quick of intuition are some women, Rachel
Abbot was conscious of her ladyship's disapproval and
dislike. For long it had not troubled her —but now

" Lieutenant Ayre, Miss Rachel."

The housemaid's voice roused her, and she sprang up
just as Geoffrey was shown in.

" Good evening, Mr Ayre," she said, quickly, and even
with a trace of nervousness. " Bring the candles, Lucy,
and tell father Mr Ayre has come."

"It is you I want to see. Miss Abbot," said Geoffrey,
pointedly, and Rachel was glad that the friendly gloom hid
her flushed face. "I don't think candles are at all
necessary," he added, with his swift, bright smile. " Are
you well to-night ? "

" Yes, I am always well," Rachel answered. " If you
don't mind the window, may I leave it open ? The evening
air is so delicious in spring."

" Your father is not in the house, is he ? " asked Geoffrey,
following her to the open window, and taking the chair
opposite.

Jyj

The Ayres of Studleigk,

" No, he never is in just now," answered Rachel, with a
slow, beautiful smile. " There is nobody in this world so
busy as father, or so utterly idle as I."

Lucy entered just then, set two tall silver candlesticks on
the table, and discreetly retired. Rachel had never asked
herself what brought the brave soldier so often to Pine Edge ;
but in the kitchen the matter had been settled long ago, and
it was only a question now where Miss Rachel would get her
bridesmaids — she had so few girl friends.

" I have come to tell you, Rachel, that I am ordered to
India," he said, without any preparation, and keeping his
eyes fixed keenly on her face. He saw it change, and her
hands tremble over her work.

" Immediately ? "

She did not look at him as she spoke.

"Yes, I am to sail with Sir Randal Vane, of the East
India Company, and th'^ other officers, from Portsmouth, on
he 26th. The troopship, with my regiment, leaves on
Tuesday."

"You have had a very short furlough," she said, in a still
passionless voice. "Is there — is there any trouble in
India?"

It was with difficulty she asked the question. Geoffrey
Ayre's pukes thrilled as he noted the hesitation in her
voice. It was not Rachel's wont. On all occasions her
bearing was quiet, serene, self-possessed. He leaned
forward in his chair, and laid his strong hand on both
of hers.

" Not in the meantime, Rachel. You know I love you.
Will you go with me ? "

" What are you saying ? "

She spoke almost piteously, and now her eyes met his —
large, open, wistful, almost imploring.

" I am asking you to be my wife, my darling, and to
share a soldier's fortunes. Is it too much to ask ? Perhaps
so 'f but, as I live, loving you as I do, I cannot go away so

The Soldier's Wooing.

j1, with a
world so

sticks on
vc asked
le Edge ;
ago, and
i get her

iercd to
ping his
and her

he East
3uth, on
ives on

1 a still
3le in

eoffrey

in her

ns her

eaned

both

e you.

his —

nd to
Thaps
ay so

far for an indefinite period without you. Do you care for
me a little, Rachel ? "

"You know I do."

The answer was characteristic of the woman. Evasion of
any questions, even the harmless coquetry which in love
affairs is supposed to be a woman's right, were unknown to
her. In the face of perhaps an eternal separation, she would
be true and honest, as was the man who sought her love.

" My darling."

Geoffrey Ayre folded her to his heart, and she let her
hands fall upon his shoulders, and her eyes met his radiant
with her love. She had given him her whole heart, and
with it a trust so boundless and so perfect that she had not
a question to ask.

" Perhaps, perhaps, I have been too lightly won," she
said at length, with an exquisite wistfulness. " It has been
so short — scarcely two months — and yet we cannot always
help these things "

" Hush, my dearest, hush. Too lightly won ! Until I
saw your face to-night I had no certainty of what your
answer would be. As God is my witness, Rachel, it will be
my life endeavour to be worthy of your faith in me."

"The 26th ! " repeated Rachel, after a time. "That is
only two weeks, Geoffrey. How awful to part from you so
soon."

" There will be no parting, if my wife will go with me."

"Yes, she will go." She spoke quietly, but with a touch
of strange emotion, which indicated that the very depths of
her being were stirred. " It seems very awful to be able to
decide so momentous a question in a moment. But I feel
as if it were decided for me ; as if the way were laid out for
me to go."

" It will be a good preparation for the vicissitudes you
may experience as a soldier's wife," he said, with a fond
smile. "This afternoon, when I got my marching orders,
I was fearfully inclined to r^bel^ but now I bless the

The Ayres of Studleigh.

circumstances which have won me a wife, whom, perhaps,
I would not have won, in the ordinary way, for many
months."

Rachel smiled slightly.

"But there is no war?" she said, inquiringly. "What
does so unexpected a summons mean."

" I suppose there are rumours of disaffection at least.
Will says so, but at the most it will be a mere trifle. You
are not afraid, Rachel ? "

" I afraid ! Perhaps some day you will see that I do not
know the meaning of fear."

She withdrew herself from him and sat down, pointing
him to a chair also.

" No, no, sit down," she said with a sweet, low laugh.
" I am afraid we have both been extremely rash. We must
try and redeem ourselves by discussing this matter calmly,
as if we had no interest in it. Do you think it a possible
thing that I could go with you on so short a notice ? "

" Well, it is short, but — but I won't go without you,
Rachel."

" Could I not come to you after ? "

"No, because I intend to take you with me," he repeated,
calmly. " You said you would go. No drawing back now,
my lady."

" But there are a great many things to consider, and
people besides ourselves," she said, soberly. " Does — does
the Squire know? "

" Yes ; he walked to the coppice gate with me and
bade me God-speed. He will come and see you in the
morning, Rachel."

Rachel's eyes filled suddenly, she could not tell why.
Although she said nothing, Geoffrey Ayre divined that she,
like all others, loved and reverenced his brother, and was
continually touched by his delicate consideration for
others.

" Then there is — father,"

The Soldier's Wuoiuf^.

Rachel spoke more slowly still, and Geoffrey saw her
brows contract and her lips droop slightly.

" Yes — I confess, dearest, that it is the thought of your
father which makes me feel that I may be a little selfish,
and yet I am not afraid to leave it to his decision."

"Can you imagine what it will be for him were he with-
out me, Geoftrey ? "

" It will be terrible for him, I know ; but I have this feel-
ing, Rachel, that iJl along he has anticipated this, and been
preparing himself for it."

" Do you think so ? "

Again that wistful, upward glance which touched him to
the quick. Before he could answer they heard a heavy
foot in the hall, and Rachel sprang up as the door of the
dining-room was opened. The words of hearty greeting on
Christopher Abbot's lips were arrested by the expression on
his daughter's face. She swiftly crossed the room, lifted
up her face and kissed him, then went out and left them
alone.

" Why — why, what's all this ; what's the matter with my
girl ? " he queried, as he laid his broad hat on the table
and turned to the young soldier standing by the open
window. The old man was quite a picture as lie stood
there, dressed in the yeoman garb — kneebreeches of fawn
cloth, and a blue coat, with a white kerchief round his
throat. He had a fine, tall, erect figure, and a clear, open
face, ruddy on the cheeks like a winter apple, grey eyes like
Rachel's, and plentiful white hair, which became him well.
There were no signs of advancing age about the farmer of
Pine Edge. He was as well preserved and hearty as many
men half his age.

"You can guess, Mr Abbot," said Geoffrey, as he
offered him his hand. " I have to offer myself now for
your acceptance as a son, since Rachel has agreed to be
my wife."

"Ay, ay, and that's how the wind has blown. Do you

V- f ,, ' s

t( .1

1 !

\ I

(

I I

The Ayres of Stndleigh.

tliink it's a fair thing now for a gay young soldier like you
to come and steal away the heart of a quiet, country girl
like my Rachel ? "

" She stole away mine first, Mr Abbot ; so it is a fair
exchange," laughed Geoffrey, and then hesitated, for there
was something more to tell. " I love your daughter sin-
cerely and devotedly as a man should when he seeks a wife,"
he began, in that frank, earnest way of his, which won all
hearts. " If you will give her to me, Mr Abbot, it will be
my life endeavour to make her happy."

" I'm not afraid of that, sir — not at all. If I had been,
do you think I'd have let you come here so much, and
never a word about t ? I know what the Ayres are, Mr
Geoffrey, and have ever been — the best that live ; but there
are other things to be thought of, lad. Although there has
always been peace and friendship between Pine Edge and
Studleigh, marrying 's a different thing. What does the
Squire say?"

"The Squire says, God bless us, Mr Abbot; he will say
it to you himself to-morrow."

" He thinks it is no bemeaning of the family then to
marry into Pine Edge ? " asked the old man, quickly.
" We are only farmers, of course, but we have our pride and
our self-respect, and I wouldn't wish my daughter to push
herself into an unwilling family, who would maybe break
her heart."

" I assure you that could not possibly happen in our case.
My brother himself told me to-night he would come and
see Rachel to-morrow if she promised to be my wife. Of
course it is possible that Lady Emily may not altogether
approve ; but, though she is William's wife, she is not
exactly our family."

" Well, I will say that, if you have the Squire's goodwill
and sanction, I would not let that stand in the way, though
sorry to vex her ladyship," said Christopher Abbot, with a
slight smile which told much. " I shall be glad to have a

The Soldier s Woouig.

talk with the S(iuire himself to-morrow. My daughter will

not be a i)enniless bride, Mr (leoffrey."

'* That does not mntler, Mr Abboi. It is Rachel herself

I love. Having won her I care for nothing else. But the

worst is to tell yet. I want to take her away in a fortnight.

I am ordered to India, and sail on the 26th."

"You want to lake her away in a fortnight. You ask a

great deal, Mr (ieoffrey. She is all I have, and you ask me

to let her go away to foreign lands on a moment's noticx'.

\'oung men arc very hasty, and they know nothing -how

should they? — of a father's feelings."

Geoffrey was silent, disheartened a little by the old man's

speech.

" What does Rachel herself say ? "

" She is willing, but thinks of you, as I do "

" If she is willing, that is enough. Rachel is not a

cliikl, and she knows her own mind. The Word bids her

leave father and mother and cleave to her husband. Why

sh(juld I hinder her? Take her, (leoffrey Ayre, and may

Clod deal with you as you deal with her."

lii

CHAP'I'ER IV.

DIFFKRENCK OF OPINION.

^T was late that night when (icoffrey Ayre returned to
Wl i Studleigh. Lady Emily had retired to her own
sitting-room, but the Squire was in the library
waiting for his brother.

"Well, old fellow?" he said, looking up with affectionate
interest when he entered. " I need scarcely ask anything.
Your face tells me the momentous question is happily
settled. Am I right?"

" Yes. I had no idea, Wi", that there could be in this
world such perfect happiness,' (ieoffrey answered; and it
pleased William Ayre well to see the fine earnestness and
subdued emotion which indicated that all the high hopes
of his manhood were awakened.

" I wish you much happiness, Geoff," the Squire said, and
they shook hands on it again, then a somewhat graver look
stole to the elder brother's face.

"What did Abbot say? Did you see him ? " he asked.

" Yes : we had a long talk. He is a fme old man, Will
— a gentleman, in the highest sense. But he is making a
great sacrifice."

" You will take her with you, then ? "

"Yes. We shall be married on the 24th, go to London,
and thence direct to Portsmouth to join the Saiamis."

i 'I

Difference of Opinion.

"Quick work, Gooff; hut I think you arc right yos, I
tliink you are quite right. I shall go owr to IMiu' lldge
first thing after Ijreakfast to-morrow morning."

" Thank you, Will. I )i(l you tell Emily ? "

"I did."

" And what was her verdict ? " asked (leoffrey, with a slight
smile.

" Unfavourahlc. I hoj)c, GeofTrey, that it will not he a
great pain to Miss Ahhot, if my wife does not appear so
cordial as one might wish. It is to he left to Lady Port-
mayne's decision, so you can anticipate how it will end."

*' I am not surprised. If we were going to live in the
neighhourhood, it might he a serious matter," said Geoffrey,
lightly, for his sister in-law's disaj)j)roval did not then seem
of much importance. '' We must just endeavour to survive
the withdrawal of the Portmayne effulgency from our simple
nui)tials," he added, with mild scorn. " Perhaj)s some day
Lady I^anily may be proud to acknowledge my wife."

" I am glad you feel no hitterness over it, Geoff."

" I ! Oh, no ; and Emily is not to be blamed. 1 am
going in direct opposition to every tenet of her creed. I
am committing social suicide," said Geoffrey, lightly. "Oh,
is there anything for me to-night?"

"Yes, your promotion," said the Squire, heartily. "So
you have to be doubly congratulated. Captain Ayre."

"I hope it will be General Ayre .some day, old boy. I
shouldn't mind a bit of active service in India. It gives a
fellow a chance."

The Squire shook his head.

" I thought you had had enough of glory for a while," he
said, with a shght laugh. "No man can say you are not
devoted to your profession. For your wie's sake, I ho[)e
there will be nothing to disturl) the peace of the lieges while
you are in Delhi. Well, I must go upstairs. Do you see
what o'clock it is ? "

" Yes, but this is a special r]ight in a fellow's life, Will.

■■!

Tiie Ay res of Stiidlcigh.

I am not inclined for sleep, so I shall sit here for a bit, if
you don't mind. Tell Emily it is all right. I hope she
won't tackle me, Will, for I couldn't stand it. The Port-
mayne theories are too many for me," said Geoffrey, half
apologetically. " Good-night."

" Good-night, and God bless you and yours for ever,
Geoff," said the Squire, with unwonted solemnity, and with
a warm hand-clasp he left the room. As he passed by the
door of his wife's boudoir she called to him to come in.

" Has Geoffrey come in ? " she asked, when he entered.
"I thought I heard your voices. Is it all .settled ? "

"Yes ; they are to be married on the 24th."

" I guessed that there would not be much uncertainty,''
she said, with a smile. "Well, I have written to mamma;
you can read the letter if you like, William, then I can add
the postscript that the date is fixed."

" Thank you, but I don't mind reading it," he answered,
and, leaning up against the cabinet, he looked for a moment
at the graceful figure in the rich dressing-gown, at the fair,
calm face bent over the escritoire. How lovely she was,
and yet how hard of heart ! " I am going to Pine Edge in
the morning, Emily. I suppose you will not go."

" I ? Oh, no. There will be time enough after mamma
writes. I have asked her to reply by return of post," she
answered, placidly, as her pen busily traced the postscript to
the closely-written sheet.

" Lady Portmayne's reply may be anticipated, Emily," he
said, quietly ; " I think that in this matter you might have
decided for yourself, and shown a little consideration for
me. I have no kindred in the world but my brother Geof-
frey, and it is not fair that you should treat him so ungener-
ously at such a time as this."

Lady Emily's face flushed, and she bit her lip. She
was not often rebuked, and she was quick to resent it.

" We cannot quarrel over it, William — it is not worth it,"
she said, without looking round. " I regret that you should

II!

t)tjference of Opinion.

She

it,"
)uld

feel obliged to use such a word as ungenerous to me. I am
not conscious of having failed in courtesy to your brother,
who has so often been an inmate of our house."

She intended the last sentence to indicate that she had
felt the soldier's frequent presence at Studleigh something
of a burden. William Ay re ilushed high to the brow, and,
turning on his heel, he left the room. His wife had sent a
shaft to his heart which would long rankle. She knew she
had hurt him ; but convinced that he deserved it, it did not
cause her any remorse or concern. She elaborated her post-
script a little, and gave to her mother the subject of the
conversation they had just had, and folding her letter she
sealed it and went calmly to bed.

There was a slight constraint in the atmosphere of the
breakfast-room at Studleigh next morning. The Squire,
usually so cordial and so courteous, was curiously silent;
but Lady Emily evinced no sign of any unusual agitation,
and talked freely to Geoffrey on commonplace things, never,
of course, alluding in the remotest degree to the matter
which was uppermost in all their minds. Immediately
after breakfast the brothers set out to walk to Pine Edge.
It was a lovely morning, the dawn had been dull and
misty, but a glorious burst of sunshine had dispelled the
gloom, and restored the warmth and brilliance of a bene-
ficent spring to the earth. But the dew lay heavy on the
grass, and hung in filmy mists about the trees, dissolving
into glittering diamonds under the sun gleams. They
walked to the avenue gates, and turned up the high road
towards the farm, the short path through the fields being
soaked with vhe heavy dew.

"There's Mr Abbot, Will," said Geoffrey, pointing to the
paddock adjoining the house. " I'll go and speak to him,
while you go on to the house. I would rather you saw
Rachel alone."

"So should I," the Squire answered ; and with a wave of
his hand to the farmer, he entered the little avenue and

1' >

u j

I >
i !

i !

The Ay res of Studleigh.

I' • t i

strode on to the house. Rachel saw him come, and herself
opened the door to him. As he crossed the little lawn, and
saw her standing in the green shadow of the porch, he thought
her one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen.
There was a strange hesitation in her manner, her cheeks
were flushed, and her eyes moist as she waited for him. He
lifted his hat with his grave, kind smile, and when he
stepped up to her, put his ann about her shoulders, and
kissed her.

" I have never had a sister, Rachel," he said, with a sunny
smile. " Who would have dreamed in the old days when
we hunted for blackberries in the coppice woods that it
would have come to this ? "

Rachel could not speak. She led the way silently into
the cool, fjhady dining-room, and when she had closed the
door she turned to him with a swift gesture, and a look he
never forgot.

" Oh, sir, do you think I am worthy ? He would not
listen to me, and perhaps I did not try very hard to make
him listen," she said, with a swift flush. " But I have been
thinking all night long, and I will speak plainly. Do you
think, Mr Ayre, that I shall be any weight upon him to drag
him down ? His life is before him. And if you, who are
always so wise and good, think so, I — I can give him up.
It would be easier now than to feel when it was too late that
we had made a mistake."

Her words touched William Ayre inexpressibly. He
saw that it was an effort for her to utter them, but that the
very highest motive prompted them. Rachel Abbot was a
woman to whom self-sacrifice was a sacred duty, from which,
when it was made plain to her, she would never flinch. It
was no small pain at that moment to the master of Studleigh
to recognise in her a fairer and more noble womanhood
than was dreamed of in his wife's philosophy.

" I think, Rachel, that instead of dragging him down, you
will urge him on towards what is highest and best. There is

n(
ht

t'i;i

Dijft'rence of Opiniott.

up.
that

the

nothing I will not hoj)e and expect from my brother now,"
he said, with most generous sincerity.

" My father spoke last night to me about the difference
in our stations. I confess I did not think of that at all,"
she said, frankly, and the Squire could not but smile at the
very unconsciousness which in Lady Emily's eyes was so
heinous an offence. " Father said, too, that it was your
great goodness and kindness which had made the difference
so little felt. Of course, when he spoke I saw it at once,
and I have to speak of that too. Would it make any
difference to him, would it keep him back in his profession,
or make him suffer in any way ? I ask you these thingc,
Mr Ayre, because I am so ignorant of the world, and be-
cause I know it is no use asking Geoffrey. You will be
true v.'ith me, I know."

" I will, Rachel, it is your right. There may be some
who will think Geoffrey has not aimed so high as he might,
but only those who do not know you. I do assure you
there is no prejudice or hostile feeling which you will not
be able to overcome, none which can cause Geoffrey the
slightest vexation, except on your account. Do you believe
me, Rachel ? "

"Yes. You are always true," she answered, simply. "I
will try to do my duty, Mr Ayre, and learn what I do not
know, in order that Geoffrey may never be ashamed."

" Ashamed, my dear child ! He has no need. As you
are, you are so charming that I expect half the subalterns
in the regiment will lose their heads over you. These
lads always fall in love with the captain's wife, when she is
lovable, and it does them a world of good. Yes, you will
be a captain's wife, Rachel. His promotion came last night.
But here comes Geoffrey. I have had my say, and now I
must see your father. Good-bye just now, in case I do not
come in again, and remember that Geoffrey will not be
fonder of his wife than 1 shall be of my new sister."

He kissed her again as he went away, leaving the sunshine

rtiij

1 ' 1

ill!

Iff

ill

40 TJic Ay res oj StudUi^^!:.

behind. He had a long talk with Christopher Abbot out
in the orchard, but Lady Emily's name was not once
mentioned.

Two days later Lady Portmayne's answer came, when
they were at breakfast at Studlcigh. Happily, Geoffrey
was absent in London on business connected with their
voyage.

" Mamma says I had better come over to Portmayne with
baby, and remain till the end of the month, A\'illiam,'' Lady
Emily said, looking up calmly from her perusal of the letter.

" The marriage is to take place on the 24th," the Squire
answered. "Will you go before then ! "

" Mamma means that ; this is Thursday. 1 shall go on
Monday, the 20th," she replied placidly.

The Squire's colour rose, and he kept his eyes on his
plate, saying nothing.

"The Vanes are going to Portmayne for a day or two,
they will arrive to-day," Lady Emily read on calmly.
"They sail in the Salamis on the twenty-first. That is
Geoffrey's ship. It is unfortunate, but perhaps on the other
hand well, that they should be prepared for what they may
. expect in India."

" What do you mean, Emily ? " asked the Squire v/ith
darkening brow.

" Just what I say. Lady Vane is a very proud woman.
I cannot conceive howyou do not see as I do in this."

"Although Lady Vane is your mother's cousin, Emily, I
must say I have never seen anything of this terrible pride
of which you speak," said the Squire. And if I know Sir
Randal at all, he is one of the frankest and most uncon-
ventional of men. I shall not be greatly surpr-sed if they
disappoint you in their treatment of Geoffrey's wife."

"We shall see," said Lady Emily, with an enigmatical
smile.

"You intend, then, to accept the invitation to Port-
mayne ? " he said inquiringly.

onc|

it.

opci
(J

the

a si

Difference of Opinion.

"Of course I do. What is the use of asking advice if
one does not accept it ? Mamma is very decided about
it. She says unhesitatingly that there is no other course
open for me."

"Ah, then, it would be madness for you to discbey," said
the Squire, with mild sarcasm, which his wife did not deign
to notice.

" I suppose you intend to be present ? " she asked after
a slight pause.

" It is a superfluous question," he answered, curtly. " I
thank God I am not bound by the Portmavne creed."

Lady Emily's faint colour once more rose.

" I would not lose my temper were I you," she said, with
a slight curl of the lip. "Captain Ayre has reason to flatter
himself that he is of considerable importance. I have
seldom seen your composure so ruffled."

" You have never tried me more sorely, Emily, and I
protest I do not deserve it at your hands," said the Scjuire,
passionately. " Y(jur kindred have always received from
me the most delicate consideration, even when it was more
than an effort for me to give it."

" I am sick of this mutual recrimination," retorted Lady
Emily, losing her habitual self-control. "I could wish that
Captain Ayre had spent his furlough elsewhere, rather than
have come to make this painful dispeace at Studleigh."

.,1 ^ Ki

i;
Mi

•'1 •

„■. U. i

! f '

„ -'Ha

m imrrfingT-nM

CHAPTER V.

"till death us do part."

»5^^1 IR RANDAL VANE had long held an important
(^v^^ post in the East India Company, and had been
resident at Delhi for many years. He was not
himself of aristocratic birth, being only the son of
a poor vicar in an outlying Yorkshire parish ; but his great
ability and shrewd foresight had enabled him to render such
signal service to the English government in India that he had
been knighted as a reward. He had married somewhat late
in life the sister of a colonel commanding a small British
regiment at Meerut, a member of the illustrious family to
which the Countess of Portmayne also belonged. The
match had been accepted as the inevitable ; and during
the brief visits paid by the Vanes to England they were
always well received and made graciously welcome even at
Portmayne. Sir Randal was reported to l)e fabulously
wealthy, and as they were childless, it was within possibility
that some of his rupees might ultimately find their way in-
to the somewhat empty coffers of the Portmaynes. Sir
Pvandal, while of necessity civil to his wife's fine kindred,
was superlatively bored by their attentions, which he
appreciated at their true value. The Countess herself
was a great trial to the plain, honest English gentleman.

who

gcnul
marti
a ch^
adorj
receij
wholl
plaiij
P-
certnl
a wu
a m(
may
and
picti
add!
reas(
calle'
inse]
of c
itsel

« Till Death us do parti'

iportant
id been
vas not
i son of
is great
er such
he had
lat late
British
nily to
The
during
f were
ven at
ilously
iibih'ty
^ay in-
''. Sir
idred,
h he
lerself
iman,

who hated pretensions and humbug ; and it was only his
genuine love for his wife that enabled him to endure the
martyrdom of a visit to the Castle. Lady Vane was indeed
a charming woman. As sweet Lucy Baker she had been
adored by the European colony at Meerut, and had
received many offers of marriage. But she remained heart-
whole until she astonished all who knew her by accepting
plain, bluff, honest-hearted Randal Vane.

Portmayno Castle was a magnificent residence, which
certainly threw Studlcigh far into the shade. It stood on
a wooded height, amidst far-spreading ancestral trees, itself
a monument to the greatness and importance of the Port-
maynes. It made a perfect picture, with its weather-beaten
and castellated towers standing out against the sky, with the
picturesque ruins of a yet older castle in the background
adding a kind of pensive grace to the scene. There was
reason enough for a quiet pride in those who had so long
called that beautiful spot a home, whose family history was
inseparable from it, whose family records told of many deeds
of chivalry and valour. But with this pride, excusable in
itself, there was no grace. The name of Portmayne was
regarded with awe and a certain respect, born of long usage
to its haughty sway, but there was no love between Castle
and cottage — none of that perfect service given and re-
ceived from the heart, such as blessed the relations between
the manor house and the people of Studleigh.

In Lady Portmayne's boudoir, which commanded a
magnificent ViCW of one of the finest bits of English scenery,
she was sitting with Sir Randal's wife on the afternoon of
the day on which Lady Emily was expected at the Castle.
Lady Portmayne had been writing some notes of invitation
for a small dinner, and her guest was busy with a piece
of Indian eml^roidery for a dress she was to give to little
William Ayre.

They were at home with each other so far that there was
no ceremony observed. They had known each other since

I'l

The Ayres of Studleigh.

babyhood, and yet Lucy Vane looked at her cousin some-
times, and asked herself if she had ever yet reached the real
woman. She was undoubtedly handsome, tall, and striking-
looking, with an eagle eye and a haughty, determined mouth
— a woman born to rule rather by fear than love. Lucy
Vane, on the contrary, was a slight, fair woman, looking
ridiculously young — she was almost of an age with her
cousin. Her face was pleasant and sunshiny, with a
certain archness of expression which made it peculiarly
winning. She was a shrewd woman, too, and one who
could hold her own ; too candid and outspoken at times to
please Lady Portmayne, of whom she did not in the least
stand in awe.

" Well, I think that is all. Emily will be here soon,"
said Lady Portmayne, as she sealed her last note, and laid
down her pen. " I am glad you will have a chance of
seeing her and the boy. He is a dear child, Lucy."

" I am sure of it," said Lucy Vane, quickly. " But for
one reason I would rather she had not been coming. I
think you have been positively cruel to that brave young
soldier, Julia."

The Countess shrugged her shoulders.

" Cruel but to be kind. It is perfectly incomprehensible
that William Ayre should have allowed such a thing to go
so disgracefully far."

"But, my dear Julia, you forget Captain Ayre is not a
child, and that his brother could not control him even if he
had the wisii."

Lady Portmayne quite impatiently shook her head.

"My dear Lucy, why so obtuse? There are a thousand
ways of forbidding besides actually laying down a command,
which as a rule, especially with headstrong young gentle-
men, defi^ats its own end. I flatter myself / could have
managed our young soldier."

There was a suspicious moisture in Lady Vane's bright
blue eyes as she listened to this assurance.

" Till Death us do part.''

"You will be perfectly horrified at us, of course, Julia,"
she said with a twinkle. " But Randal and I have written
to Mr Ayre, inviting ourselves to the wedding, and I have
also written specially to the bride, promising her my com-
panionship, and what care I can give, being always so sick,
on board the Salami's. So we must leave," she added, 'vith
a distinct note of triumph in her sweet voice ; *'at least a
day sooner than we intended."

Lady Portmayne looked distinctly annoyed.

"And may I ask, Lucy, what such an extraordinary pro-
ceeding signifies? You have gone out of your way to do
this, knowing my views upon it. 1\. looks like a direct
slight."

" If you choose to look upon it in that light, of course
you may," returned Lady Vane, with the utmost serenity.
"You know that we have never agreed on certain questions,
jnd never shall. But I intend to tell Emily quite plrinly
what I think of her treatment of her dear husband's only
brother. I will be frank with you, Julia. Randal cr.iled it
inhuman, and I am sure the word was not a bit too saoug."

" Your husband, of course, may be expected to tak e their
side," retorted Lady Portmayne with slighting significance,
"and I hope you will say nothing to Emily. Pardon me
for reminding you that this is a purely family matter with
which you have nothing to do."

"I won't make any promises," answered Lady Vane, quite
good humouredly. " You know I am given to plain speak-
ing, and I really do think that you have not been courteous
to Mr Ayre. I leave Emily out of it altogether. She has
fiot done her duty, and she will regret it, and so will you,
for giving her such bad advice. Of course I have not seen
Miss Abbot, but I am very sure, knowing what I know of
Oeoffrey Ayre, that she will be all we could desire. In any
case I intend to be kind to her, for Heaven only knows
what may be in store for her as well as for us all in India
during the next year."

. h_

.pt

ill

* I !

I i

The Ayres of Studleigh.

Lady Portmayne pursed up her hau^dity lips and remained
silent. There was nothing to be made of arguing with her
remarkably candid and far-seeing cousin. So the matter
was allowed to drop, and when Lady Emily arrived was
studiously kept in the background. But the Vanes felt
that by so freely expressing their sympathy with the young
pair they had given grave offence at Portmayne, offence
which would not be easily forgotten or forgiven. The at-
mosphere during the closing days of their visit was frigid,
and they were glad to hasten their departure.

"We are going straight on to Studleigh, Emily," Lucy
Vane said, as they rose from lunch to prepare for their
journey. " William has very kindly asked us to remain the
night with him. I .suppose we may take your kind per-
mission as granted ? "

"You are always welcome at Studleigh, Aunt Lucy,"
Lady Emily answered, somewhat formally, although she
used the name by which Lady Vane was sometunes called
in the Portmayne circle. Lady Vane looked into the
lovely face searchingly, and suddenly laid her hand on her
shoulder entreatingly. By this time they were alone in the
room.

" Emily, do think better of it, and come with us.
Think of Mr Ayre before anything else. It is your duty, as
it ought to be your greatest happiness. You may regret it,
dear, all your life."

A curious look passed over the impassive face, but
whether it indicated relenting her aunt never knew, for just
then Lady Portmayne swooped down upon them, and the
opportunity was lost. That lady took care that there should
be no further opportunity for private talk between Lady
Vane and Mr Ayre's wife.

Although it was evening when the Vanes arrived at Stud-
leigh Station they were met by the Squire himself. The
expression of his face, as he bade them welcome, indicated
how greatly he appreciated their act of true friendship.

iii

.'■i

but

just

the

ould

,ady

" Till Death us do part!

" But Where's the bridegroom ? " asked Lady Vane, gaily.
*' It was the very least he could do to come and meet us.
I must talk seriously to him. He does not know he has
braved the wrath of the queen of Delhi society."

"Oh, Lucy, hold your peace," quoth Sir Randal, though
looking with admiration at his wife's radiant face. She
was in her element. To do a really kind action was a
great pleasure to her, and one which she seldom missed.

" Oh, Geoffrey is at the farm. I promised we should
drive round that way. You would like to see Miss Abbot
before to-morrow."

" Oh, of course I should. I intended to take our gift to
her myself this evening. Are you satisfied with your future
sister, Mr Ay re ? "

" Entirely so. She is a noble and a good woman. I
think Geoffrey has been most fortunate."

" I am glad of it. I felt sure of it. She will be quite an
acquisition to us in Delhi."

It was quite dark when they drove up the steep ascent to
the farm. The roll of the carriage wheels brought the
inmates of the house to the door, and Captain Ayre was
the first to assist Lady Vane to alight ; but just behind
stood the old man, erect and dignified looking, with a
pleased light on his face. It gratified him beyond
measure to see that Lady Emily stood almost alone in her
bitter opposition to the marriage which was to take place
on the morrow.

" How do you do. Captain Ayre ? \Ve have torn
ourselves from the bosom of our family to come to you in
your extremity," said Lady Vane, with a twinkle 'n her
bright eyes. " I hope you are properly grateful. Is this
Mr Abbot? What a splendid old man." She lowered her
voice so that the farmer did not hear her ; but, seeing that
she was looking directly at him, he came forward and tc )k
off his hat.

" Proud to see you, my lady, at Pine Edge," he said,

The Ayrcs of Studleigh.

Pi!

heartily, and with that fine courtesy wluch had nothing
servile in it. " My daughter is very proud to see so many
of the Captain's friends wishing to be kinil ; very proud,
but a little broken down, too, by it all," he added, softly,
" being only a woman and so you'ig."

Lady Vane shook hands very heartily with the old man,
and in a few graceful words e.\[)ressed her pleasure at
meeting him. Then she went into the house, and within
the dining-room door saw standing the tall, slight figure,
with a beautiful, grave, earnest face, and a pair of shining
grey eyes, which were full of feeling.

"Is this the future Mrs Geoffrey? My dear, let me kiss
you. You are lovely, and I know I shall love you. 1 had
no idea you would be like this."

The noble simplicity of the country maiden won Lady
Vane's heart at once and completely, and they parted that
night like old friends. There was a great deal of gentle
banter of the young pair, as well as much serious talk about
the life they were about to enter ; and Rachel, looking into
the true face of Lucy Vane, felt that she had made one
friend who would stand by her across the seas.

The one who suffered most, who could see but little
brightness in this happy bridal, said least about it, and that
was the old man about to be left desolate at the farm. On
the last night Rachel slept soundly, but Christopher Abbot
pace I the floor till morning, and more than once stole
softly to his daughter's room, as if he grudged the hours
spent in sleep, when to-morrow she would be gone. But
he showed a brave front. He had his little joke ready
when Rachel sent away her breakfast untouched ; but she
was not quite deceived. She saw a certain haggardness
in his face, a wistful, pathetic gleam in his clear eye, a
nervousness of manner which betrayed something of the
inner pain. When she came downstairs dressed in her
wedding-gown, and saw her kind old father waiting for her
in the hall, it came upon her suddenly, how awful the

dC5

cai
or

to
ye

" 7/7/ Dea//i us do part!'

desolation at Pine Edge that niglit when he sliould return
to the old house alone.

" Are you ready, my lass ? Oh, what bravery ! I harilly
can call so splendid a lady my lass. Hush, hush ; no tears
or shaking."

"Father — father — forgive my selfishness! I ought not
to go, I ought not to go ! " she cried. " 1 will stay even
yet, if you bid me."

" Nay, nay, we must go ; your bonny bridegroom is
waiting for you," he said, a trifle huskily. " I only want
to say, lass, that you have been the best of daughters to me,
and if it should please God that this be our last parting,
you may know that when I die it will be blessing you with
my last breath. And if we should be spared to meet
again, and if my old eyes should look on a grandchild in
Pine i^dge, why, then, I'll bless the Lord for His goodness.
But wherever you may go, my kiss, or whatever your
fortune, this is your home while I am in it. Come, come ;
fie, no tears, or the Captain will be drawing his grand
sword to me at the very altar steps ! "

So they drove away ) and as they entered the church
porch arm-in-arm, the assembled villagers did not know
which to admire most — the beautiful bride or the stately,
handsome, old gentleman, beaming on his old neighbours
with his own happy smile.

"Abbot o' Pine Edge deserves his luck," they said one
to the other. " An' she's fit for the Captain, very fit ; an'
a finer lady than her ladyship's own self, with all her
pride ! "

It was a brilliant assemblage and a brilliant wedding in
the old church that sweet, spring morning — a wedding which
was long talked of by all who witnessed it. There was
something in the romantic and touching circumstances
which appealed to every heart, and many an eye was wet
— many a lip trembled as the beautiful service went on.

Even the Lady Emily was but slightly m.'ised, and the

ill

III

iilli

in.

Jil I'

T/ie Ayres of Studleigii.

bridal lacked nothing though the august effulgence of the
Portmaynes was withdrawn. The provincial paper contain-
ing the elaborate accounts duly found its way to Portmayne
Castle ; and when Lady Emily glanced over the list of
guests, anJ saw there the names ^f the most exclusive in
the county, a boundless surprise took possession of her.

But, as behoved her in the circumstances, she made no
comment.

liihiii'M

ll'f'l

of the

)ntain-

mayne

list of

ive in

de no

>«*■

*S^-.r .r^^a^^^g^SS WTTf^^^

CHAPTER VI.

it'

. (

iff

)

:t 1

DARK FOREBODINGS.

N the shaded verandah of a bungalow in the Euro-
pean part of the city of Delhi, two English ladies
we/e sitting at their sewing towards the close of a
sultry evening in May. In the pleasant garden
below a native nurse-bearer, with his dusky head enveloped
in a brilliant turban, was leading by the hand a little child
just beginning to toddle uncertainly alone. He was an
English child, with a fair, pure skin, large grey eyes, and
brown curls clustering on his brow ; a lovely boy of whom
any parent might have been justly proud.

He chattered incessantly to his nurse, his sweet, shrill
tones ringing out clearly in the heavy air, mingling with
the tender cadences of the nurse-bearer's voice. His dark
face, bent upon the fair boy by his side, was transfigured by
its devoted love. Only those who have been resident in
India, and have proved the patience, the gentleness, the
absolute fidelity and endurance of these native bearers can
understand the relations between an English mother and her
Indian servants.

It had been a day of heat almost too intense to be borne.
The woodwork of the bungalows was blistered and split in
some places where the sun beat most fiercely upon it, while

I i

The Ayres of Studleigk.

:lil;

within, the furniture was burning to the touch, the very linen
in the drawers smelt as if it had been but newly removed
from a fire. That hour was the least trying of the day, it
was the first time the ladies had ventured out of the dark-
ened recesses of the house. All Nature seemed to be sick-
ened of the sun, the birds, with drooping wings and gaping
bills, Jiuffered intensely from the hot wind which experienced
residents knew preceder" a visit of the dread tornado.

The prospect spreadmg out before the cantonment was
not without its picturesque effects. The glittering dome of
the Jumna Musjid, the great mosque which is one of the
glories of the ancient city, the imposing battlements of the
palace, the graceful and refreshing spots made by the acacias
drooping over the flat roofs, the tall date trees, and the slug-
gish windings of the Jumna, with its picturesque bridge of
boats and imposing fortifications, combined to form a unique
and lovely picture ; but it had lost its charm for these two
women who sat busy at their sewing, and talking low and
earnestly, with visible anxiety on their faces. One was
elderly, a grave, sweet faced English lady, whom we last
saw before the altar in the old church at Stndleigh, and
who had amply fulfilled her promise to iDcfriend the Eng-
lish girl who that day became a soldier's wife. Rachel
herself had changed ; the climate of the East had tried
her sorely. She was very slender, and the white muslin
gown hung loosely upon her figure, and her face was much
thinner, and had lost its ruddy hue. But there was a dignity
and grace about her, intensified by a sweetness of expression
and demeanour, which made her a lovely woman. Her
health had been indifferent in India ; she had long been
delicate after the birth of her little son. Until lately her
poor health had been the only cloud on her own and her
husband's happiness, but now there were other and more
pressing anxieties, forebodings which not only blanched the
faces of frail women, but made the hearts of men quail in
their breasts, not with craven fear for themselves, but with

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Dark Forebodings.

concern for the women and children who were dearer to
them than their lives. The rumours of disaffection among
the natives which had been lulled for a time had again
broken out, accompanied this time by signs there was little
mistaking. On that eventful Saturday night a council of
English officers was being held in the Flagstaff Tower to
consider the best measures to take in view of a revolt among
the Sepoys at that station, their behaviour having lately
undergone a somewhat suspicious change. They were
arrogant and disrespectful in their demeanour towards the
Europeans, and in cases of punishment for insubordination
had been heard to mutter threats about a day of reckon-
ing rapidly approaching when these insults to native pride
would be amply avenged. Sir Randal Vane and Captain
Ayre were among those present at the council, and their
wives were anxiously awaiting their return.

" It is hard for you, my dear," said Lady Vane, with
affectionate kindliness. "The first ye?rs of your married
life have been passed in anxiety, and even in a certain
degree of peril. Are you never tempted to wish yourseli
safe back in that sweet, old farm-home at Stud^eigh ? "

" I think of it very often, I confess," Rachel answered,
with a smile and a quick, starting tear. " But I would not
exchange my present life for the old way. Lady Vane. I
seem to have really lived only since I came to India."

" You have taught some others how to live too, my dear,"
responded Lady Vane significantly. *' I thought it my duty
some time ago to write a somewhat copious epistle to Lady
Emily Ayre."

Rachel s colour faintly rose.

" On what subject ? " she asked, quickly.

" On the subject of the sister-in-law of whom she is not
worthy," said the elder woman with great energy. " Shall
I tell you something of what I said ? "

*' I know it would be kind. You are always kind to me.
Without you I could not have been so good a wife and

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The Ay res of Studleigh.

mother as I have been. You have taught me everything,
and shown me the highest ideal of a woman's duty."

" Nay, my dear, you are crowning me v. .h your own
laurels," said Lady Vane, shaking her head. " That is just
what you have been showing to us every day since you
came. I said to Lady Ayre that you had set an example to
the young married women of our European colony in Delhi
which cannot be over-estimated, an example of all a gentle-
woman and a Christian wife and mother should be, and

" Oh, Lady Vane, hush ! "

" My love, I am doing right to tell you this, because
your spirits are down a little, and you are in the mood to
be hard and unkind to yourself. There are times when a
word of encouragement is as necessary to our fainting hearts
as bread to the starving body. Oh, I shall not spoil you.
If necessary, as you know, I can reprove you too."

" You have been very indulgent to me, dear Lady Vane.
Geoffrey and I can never be grateful enough for the great
kindness shown to us by you and Sir Randal."

" I wish, Rachel, that there was any possibility of getting
you and that precious baby of yours away to the hills," said
Lady \ -tne, as she looked with undisguised anxiety on her
companion's pale face. " Sir Randal is talking of sending
me to Simla in June. Could you tear yourself away from
Captain Ayre for two months, you most devoted of wives ? "

"Yes, I could for Clement's sake," responded the young
mother quickly, as her glance wandered towards a clump of
acacia trees in the garden, from whence came sounds of
childish merriment. " How good and gentle Azim is, Lady
Vane ! I confess when I saw my baby first in his arms I
had a curious feeling, but now I know he is safer than with
me. I believe he would lay down his life for his charge."

'^ There are many instances on record of such devotion
among the Hindoos. Long, long may these beautiful
relationships betw€v-n the European and the native ser-

Dirk Forebodings.

vants be maintained," said Lady Vane, gravely ; and then
a strange silence fell upon them, and though each knew
\vhat was occupying the thoughts of the other, it was not
put into words. A strange uncertainty had crept into
European life in the old city on the banks of the Jumna
— an uncertainty which had in it the elements of apprehen-
sion and fear. It seemed as if they were waiting for some
stupendous crisis, as if each step brought them nearer the
edge of an unknown precipice. The Council being then
held in the Flagstaff Tower was the first direct acknow-
ledgment that the state of matters in the rity were such
as to cause any anxiety. The ladies were still silent when
Sir Randal and Captain Ayre entered the garden by a side
gate, and came somewhat hastily up the path. They were
talking earnestly, and both faces wore their gravest look.
Rachel rose hurriedly from her chair, for a faint curious
sickness seemed to come over her, a prevision of immediate
danger.

" There is nothing to alarm you, my love," GeoiTrey said,
reassuringly, as he laid his strong hand on her arm, and
looked into her face with protecting tenderness. " Yes, we
will tell you exactly how matters stand, and what we propose
to do. We agreed in Council -didn't we. Sir Randal ? — that
though there was no imminent danger, we were justified in
taking every precaution. The first is to remov^ the defence-
less to a place of safety at once. You knew that Major and
Mrs Elton had arranged to leave Delhi on Monday for Cal-
cutta, Lady Vane ? "

" I heard something of it ; but surely they have hurried
on their plans ? "

" Possibly. Mrs Elton is utterly prostrated with nervous-
ness, and they leave quite a week earlier than they intended.
We proposed as we walked down that they should take you
and Rachel and the boy in thei'- travelling carriage, which
is large enough for four."

"Did you propose any sich thing for me, Randal?" said

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The Ay res of Studletgh.

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Lady Vane, with a humorous smile. " Did you think it
likely that I would leave you in the lurch? It is quite
different with Mrs Ayre. She has her child to consider.
But I have nothing but you, and I mean to keep by you to
the last."

"You'll have to obey orders like the* rest of us, madam,"
said Sir Randal, gruffly, but he turned his grey head quickly
away from her, and his eyes grew dim.

" I am not amenable to authority, my love," responded
Lady Vane, placidly. " But I am delighted to hear of
such a chance for dear Rachel, Captain Ayre. I have just
been urging upon her the necessity for her having an im-
mediate change. Have you no friends at any of the hill
stations ? "

" Don't ask him, Lady Vane," interrupted Rachel, quickly,
"nor put any such ideas into his head. Whatever may
happen, I shall not leave him, unless I am compelled to
do so."

She drew herself up — her momentary fear gone — and in
its place came a quiet strength and resolution which im
pressed them all. Rachel had awakened to the first duty ot
a soldier's wife, a calm and heroic endurance in times of
anxiety or peril.

" If Mrs Elton would take charge of Clement, Geoffrey,
and take him home to England, I should send him," she
said, suddenly. " I believe Azim would go with him."

" Home to Studlcigh ? " asked Geoffrey, quickly.

"No, to Pine Edge," answered Rachel, with a slight
pressure of her lips.

Lady Vaue took her husband's arm, and led him down
the verandah steps into the garden, so that for a few
moments the young couple were left alone.

" Could you really part with the boy, Rachel ? " Geoffrey
asked.

" I could. I have been fearfully oppressed all day vith a
sense of impending evil. If baby were safe, I would not

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Dark Po,ehodingS.

mind for myself. Besides, this heat takes the life out of hihi.
He has been so languid all day. Will you tell me, Geoffrey,
quite frankly, what is the danger you apprehend, and what
its consequences would be? It will be better for me to
know exactly what may happen."

Geoffrey Ayre hesitated a moment. The nature of the
danger was easily known ; its consequences were such as not
an Englishman in the city, soldier or civilian, dared face.
It meant a handful of Europeans in the grasp of a mighty
horde of Mohammedans, in whose breasts the instincts of a
savage race had not been extinguished or much modified by
the touch of civilization.

"There has been a revolt at Meerut, Rachel. A dark
runner brought the news this morning; and he says the
mutineers are marching on to Delhi," he replied, briefly,
but kept back the fact that the greater portion of the
European residents in Meerut had been massacred. "If
our Sepoys join the rebels it will go hard with us, we must
admit that, dear, for we are only a handful."

" And have you any idea of the state the Sepoys are in ? "
Rachel asked, quite quietly still.

" Disaffected still, so far as we can judge or trust them,"
answered Geoffrey, somewhat gloomily. " The commandant
ordered out the regiments this forenoon and told them the
news, and exhorted them to stand true to their colours.
They cheered him to the echo : but it is just possible that
an Indian i.heer and an English one may have different
meanings. I wish you would take advantage of the Eltons'
carriage, dearest. Such scenes and anxieties are not for
you just now."

" When are they going ? "

"On Monday morning."

" I shall go to Mrs Elton now, and see if she will
take baby."

((

And you ?

No, I shall itay here with you, Geoffrey.

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77/^ Ayirs of Sfudkigh.

" My darling, it will be terrible to part from you ; but it
would make my mind easier if you were away."

" And what about my mind, Geoffrey ? " she asked, with
a slight, sad smile. *' I should certainly die of apprehension
about you. I came to India because I loved you, and that
love makes it easy for me to share every risk to which you
are exposed. Let it be as I say."

He put his arm about her slender shoulders and drew
her to his heart.

"My wife, in such troublous times as these I could
almost wish I had left you in safety at home. Do you not
blame me ? "

" I blame you ! "

" Never had her eyes looked into his with a more endur-
ing and perfect trust. She touched his bronzed cheek with
her white fingers, and that touch had the power to thrill
him as of yore.

" Though this should be the last day of my life, Geoffrey,
I bless the day I became your wife. There is no happier
woman in the wide world than I."

It was an assurance passing sweet to the soldier's heart
— an assurance recalled with sudden vividness a few hours
later, when the storm broke, and he was where those
who knew him expected him to be — in the very hottest
forefront of the battle. To her life's end Rachel Ayre
thanked God that in that last moment of confidence she
had been moved to utter these true, tender, wifely words.

" It's going to be an ugly business, Lucy," said Sir
Randal Vane to his wife in his gruff, practical way. " An
ugly business. I suppose it will take the total extermination
of the Europeans in different parts of India to convince
that wooden-headed Government at home that the military
service in India is a perfect mockery of the name. Why,
we've nothing but the Company's servants and a few English
officers to cope with these Mohammedan devils. I beg
your pardon, Lucy, but they're nothing else. Graves had

ii I,

Dark Forebodings.

them out this forenoon appcaHng to their loyalty. Loyalty !
As well a[)peal to that rat's loyalty. It would be about as
satisfactory."

" We must just be brave and trust in God," said his
wife.

" I suppose so. It's all that's left to us anyhow,"
responded Sir Randal, quickly. " There's no man's help
in this forsaken place to be depended on. Before another
sundown it may be, every man for himself, with us all."

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CHAPTER VII.

THE BURSTING OF THIC STORM.

UN DAY, the loth of May, passed over peacefully
in Delhi. The usual services were held in the
churches, and there were no alarming signs of
any disposition to rebellion among the natives.
l>ut anxiety still possessed the Europeans, and they rose
on Monday morning apprehensive of some great crisis.
The uncertainty regarding the nature of this crisis was the
hardest trial these few brave hearts had to bear. On Sunday
morning Captain Ayre had made every arrangement with
his friends, the Eltons, to take the boy, with his native
nurse, in their carriage to Calcutta, and thence home to
England. Rachel wa up before dawn on Monday morning
gathering together hei baby's wardrobe, thankful for any-
thing which would divert her mind from the parting, and
from the anxieties which encompassed them. Although she
was in weak health, her wonderful power of endurance and
quiet resolution never deserted her for a moment. Her
husband watched her in mingled amazement and admira-
tion, knowing that her passionate love for the child must
make the sacrifice one of no ordinary kind. Once, when
he tried to express something of this feeling, she lifted her
fp,ce to his, and her mouth trembled,

TJte Bursting of tJte Storm,

" Don't, Geoffrey ! " she said, almost sharply, and he saw
that it would be wise to leave her alone. So w ith a kiss he
left her, and went to meet with his brother officers.

Rachel continued her preparations, breathing many a
passionate prayer into the folds of the little garments. ("lod
alone knew what a sacrifice she was making. W'itii her,
however, mother love had not eclipsed wifely love. Her
husband was still first and dearest, and she had chosen as
her heart dictated. While the child slept through the cool
hours of the early morning the faithful A/iin watched by
him, dividing his attention between his idolised charge and
the mistress he loved with scarcely less devotion.

" Come here, Azim," she said at leiv^th, when her task
was almost done, and motioning him to follow her to the
verandah, where they could talk without fear of disturbing
the child. With a low salaam Azim obeyed, and stood
before her with his arms meekly folded, his large expressive
eyes fixed intently on her face. For a moment Rachel
Ayre met that look with one of keenest ([uestioning, which
the native felt to indicate that his beloved Mem Sahib was
debating within herself how far he was to be trusted. In
spite of his silent and voiceless ways, Azim had a quick
understanding and an acute perception. But, though the
slight suspicion visible in the expression of his mistress's
face hurt him, he made no sign.

"Azim," she said quickly, " the Sahib and I are about to
give you the greatest proof of our confidence that we have
in our power. We entrust the life of our child in your
hands."

The Oriental bowed, and laying his hand upon his heart
uplifted his eyes to heaven. He knew enough of the
English to understand what his mistress was saying to him,
but his own tongue had only mastered a few simple words,
and he could not answer her except by signs.

" Major and Mrs Elton have kindly undertaken to convey
our precious B^ba home to England, but it is on you we

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The Ayres of StudUigh.

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depend to care for him and to shield him with your life.
For such a service gold cannot pay, tiiough it will not he
lacking. The fervent gratitude of a lifetime will be yours,
A/im. Is your love for the Haba strong enough to under-
take this charge ? "

Again A/im bowed himself to the ground so low that
his lips touched tiie feet of his mistress ; then he raised
himself, laid his hand on his heart, and pointed to the
inner room of the bungalow where lay the unconscious
child. "Azim die, Haba live," he said, with eagerness, and
his lustrous eyes shone. "Sahib and Mem Sahii), trust
Azim. He not forget. Azim die, Haba live ! "

Rachel's eyes filled with tears, and, extending her hand,
she grasped that of her dusky servant in a fervent grasp.

" May Clod reward you, Azim, and deal with you as you
deal with him," she said, quickly. " Now, you must awaken
Baba, for the carriage is to pass at eleven, and we must not
keep it waiting."

" Let the poor child sleep while he may, Rachel," ^^^^
the voice of Lady Vane, and she came hurrying up the
verandah steps, her face paler than her wont. " ^Ve are
too late. Sir Randal has just sent a servant to tell us that
the rebels have arrived from Meerut, and entered the city
by the Bridge of Boats ; and we are to make ready at once
to withdraw to the Flagstaff Tower "

Rachel scarcely grew a shade paler, and betrayed nu
sign of fear.

" But will that prevent the Eltons from leaving ? " she
asked, quickly.

" I should imagine so. Yes, certainly."

"And where is Geoffrey?"

Lady Vane hesitated a moment ; but the steady look of
the younger woman demanded that there should be no
concealment.

"The 52nd have gone out to meet the rebels."

Rachel turned her face away, and after an instant of

The Bursting of the Storm.

silence passed into the inner room, while Azim was busily
engaged dressing iiis charge.

••Azim die; liaha live," he reiterated, and a faint, wan
smile touched Rachel's lips.

••The S2nd have gone out to meet the rebels." She
realised in that awful moment what it was to be a soldier's
wife. Lady Vane followed her into the room, and sat
down calmly on a rocking-chair.

•' If this is to be our last day of life, Rachel, so be it, and
our blood be upon the head of the English Govermnent.
No, I will not hush — I am not so good as you. I have
always told you so ; and I must relieve my mind. We'll
be obliged to die, and every soldier in the city will fight
to-day against fearful odds. A hundred to one, Randal
said. I hope, if both our husbands, my dear, must die,
it will be at their posts, and not before they have each sent
half-a-dozen of these vermin into eternity. Do you hear
that firing? Isn't it amazing how quietly we can take it
when it comes ? But God only knows what is before us."

•' God will take care of us," murmured Rachel, as she
threw on the child's dress, and held him while the nurse's
skilful fingers fastened it.

'• Perhaps He will, but unless the age of miracles should
be renewed, there is not an atom of hope," said the elder
woman with the philosophy of despair. •' It depends, of
course, on how many faithful souls are left among the
Sepoys. I believe myself that Azim there may be the only
one. I have a revolver, Rachel, which I learned to use
when I came to India first. I will keep it for you and for
myself, should the worst emergency come. Here is a
carriage, and poor Mrs Elton looking like a corpse in it.
Ah, the Major, too. It revives one to sec an English
soldier. Well, what has happened ? "

Major Elton, a tall, stout, military man, cleared the
verandah steps at a bound.

" Come both of you I The streets are comparatively

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(juiet. We shall reach the Flagstaff Tower in safety, perhaps,
if we take the by-ways."

" You cannot leave the city, then ? " said Rachel, as she
hastily threw on a wrap.

" The city is in the hands of the rebels. There's a hand-
to-hand combat going on at this minute at the Cashmere
Gate. Resistance is absurd, and simply means butchery
of our poor fellows ; God help us all ! "

Rachel folded the child in her arms. The Major gave
his arm to Lady Vane.

" There is no room for the bearer. Let him be. If he
is faithful he'll find you out again," he said, waving Azim
to keep back. A low guttural cry escaped the servant's
lips, and he stood on the verandah step the picture of
unutterable despair, as the ladies hastily stepped into the
carriage and the Major sprang to his saddle.

Rachel looked out and waved her hand, not forgetful
even in that trying moment of her faithful nurse. Little
Clement, too, clapped his hands and crowed, delighted at
the prospect of a ride. When the carriage was out of
sight the faithful fellow retired into the bungalow, and
began quietly and methodically to gather together such
things as he knew his mistress prized, thcvgh in the peril
and anxiety of the moment she had taken no heed of them,
but gladly left her home to the mercy of the spoiler, in the
hope that life would be spared. Leaving the bungalow
behind, the carriage dashed down a retired and leafy road
skirting the busiest streets ; the Major galloping ahead,
scarcely daring to hope that they would make good their
escape. The massacre in the city had begun, but the
interest of the insurgents was chiefly centred at the gates,
which the Europeans were heroically trying to defend from
the mutineers without. It was a forlorn hope. At the end
of the road from the bungalov; the fugitives had to cross a
busier street in order to reach the ascent to the heights on

which stood the

Flagstaff

Tower. Just as the carriage

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T/ic Bursting of the Storm.

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end

dashed across the square a stray bullet from an insurgent
rifle knocked the Major from his saddle. The driver of the
carriage, faithful to his charge, dashed on, and so spared the
helpless ^adies the sight of their protector's death. A sabre
cut finished the work of the treacherous bullet, and one
more brave English soldier was added to the list of the
dead. This incident attracted the attention of a party of
marauders passing along the road to the cantonment, and,
supposing the inmates of the carriage to be rich Europeans
flying with their treasures of money or jewels, instantly gave
chase. The driver of the carriage, faithful even still to his
dead master, and to the helpless women in his care,
spurred on his horses and reached the tower gates, though
himself wounded in his right arm by a bullet. The whole
party, carriage and all, were at last hastily withdrawn into
the temporary refuge of the tower, where poor Mrs Elton
instantly swooned away. Sir Randal Vane, overjoyed to
see his wife in comparative safety, came from his place on
guard to greet them.

"Where's the Major?" he asked, quickly.

" Dead or mortally wounded, Randal," his wife answered,
mournfully. " He was shot at, anyhow ; and we could not
wait to see. Poor Mrs Elton," she added, glancing com-
passionately at her prostrate friend. " It might be bettei
for her never to be restored. What chance of life have any
of us ? "

"Meagre enough, certainly," returned Sir Randal, fiercely
tugging his grey m justache. " Mrs Ayre, you set an example
to us. Although this is your first experience of active ser-
vice, if I may use such honourable words about this das-
tardly business, you look entirely self-possessed."

"There is no use making a fuss, and adding to the anxie-
ties of our protectors," Rachel answered, quietly. "Is there
any news of the 52nd?"

"They are at the Cashmere Gate yet, but it is a forlorn
hope. We have no means of knowing what is going on, except

The Ayres of Studleigh.

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by the firing. It's a work of death anyhow," said the old
man, unable to present a semblance of cheerfulness, for he
was in despair. " Some may escape ; we can't tell. All
we can do in the meantime is to defend ourselves until help
comes."

" Where is it to come from ? " asked Lady Vane, with a
fleeting, melancholy smile.

" Meerut. Our only chance is that Hewett w'l] send after
the mutineers, unless he is utterly demoralised or massacred."

" Is there any part of the ramparts from which we can
see the operations at the Cashmere Gate, Sir Randal ? "
asVed Rachel, as she slowly rocked her baby to and fro in
her arms.

"Yes, my dear, if the atmosphere were clear, but you
can't expose yourself there. Believe that Captain Ayre,
wherever he is, is doing his duty as an Englishman and a
brave soldier should. And if we have seen the last of him,
a soldier's wife has to accept every hazard of war."

" Yes,' Rachel admitted with a pitiful droop of the lips.
"But this is not war. If you will hold iJaba, Lady Vane,
and Sir Randal will allow me, and show me the way, I should
like to go outside."

" Who so positive as a woman ? Well, well, Lucy, take
the little lad, and let her have her wish. This way, Mrs
Ayre; but I promise you you will see nothing but the smoke
of the firing and the flames of the bungalows. The mis-
creants are in iie midst of their fiendish work.'.'

Rachel took the old soldier's arm, and he led her to tp.e
ramparts, where the soldiers were busy preparing ammuni-
tion for their 'iefence.

The Flagstaff Tower being built on a height, commanded
a magnificent and uninterrupted view of the city and all its
gateways. It was, however, as Sir Randal had predicted.
There v.'as nothing to be seen but the smoke of the battle,
lit here and there by the lurid flames of the burning bunga-
lows. A strange din and tumult filled the air, and the whole

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The Bursting of tJie Storm.

scene was indescribably weird, and calculated t inspire
horror and fear.

"Where are the 52nd, Sir Randal?" Rachel asked, after
a moment's contcmi)]ation of the scene.

"Yonder, where the smoke is thickest, my dear. You
see you can discover nothing yonder. I doubt not your
hero is doing his duty. My God, what is that ? "

A fearful report, like the roar of an earthquake, or the
explosion of a volcano, rent the air, and a mighty tongue of
fire shot up to the sky, lighting ibr an instant the sombre-
laden atmosphere, and causing every object to stand out
with startling vi\ idness.

"It's the Residency. They've blown it up," cried the
gunners, but in a moment the truth burst upon them, an")
they gave a faint cheer.

"Some of the brave boys have blown up the magazine.
Heaven grant that a thousand of the dogs have gone up
with it ! Anyhow, they can't shoot us with our own am-
munition now," cried Sir Randal. " It's like a thing Geof-
frey Ayre would do. I never saw a cooler hand in ar
emergency."

Rachel shook her head and crept away from the ramp rts.
She had seen enough. There remained in her mind not
the shadow of a doubt thac her husband had lost his life in
that struggle against fearful odds.

She found that Baba, unconscious of the perils surround-
ing his innocent life, had fallen asleep, and that Lady \'anc
had laid him down, in order to assist in attending some of
the wounded who had just been brought in. Rachel s])rang
forward as she recognised in one poor, shattered form
Geoffrey's own Colonel, who could doubtless give her some
news of him. "I asked him, my love," Lady Vane whis-
pered," reading the intense questioning in the young wife's
eyes. " He was uninjured last time the Golonel saw him,
and fighting like a lion. If he should be wounded they'll
bring him here, if possible. Look at these poor fellows,

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T/ie Ay res of StudlcigJi.

and what can we do for them r We have nothing to
alleviate their suffering. Surgeon Paine has been killed
going back to the laboratory for the things we need. Oh,
Rachel, Rachel, God help us all ! "

If women's tears, or the agony of their compassion,
could have healed them, these wounded heroes had not
long been prostrate.

That dreadful day was but the beginning of sorrows for
the Europeans in the old Mohanmiedan city.

nwy

--<,r

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CHAi TER VIII.

IN DEADLY PERIL.

•E may go back a few hours, and follow Captain
Ayre through the perils of that awful day.
When he left Rachel in the early morning he
walked across to the cantonments, and found
his brother officers making preparations for battle. The
natives of the 52nd betrayed no immediate signs of insub-
ordination, and obeyed their orders quietly, and with ap-
parent readiness. Directly the news was brought that a
small number of mutineer cavalry from Meerut were cross-
ing the Jumna by the Bridge of Boats, Colonel Ripley gave
orders to advance to meet them. This order was quietly
obeyed, and for a time all went well.

Geoffrey Ayre, field-officer for the week, hoped that in
the moment of action at hand his men would not fail. The
influence of his personality was very great, he knew they
.loved him; but he depended on it too much. The mutinous
mania is one which spi^edily crushes out all better feelings,
because it appeals so powerfully and irresistibly to the
basest passions of the human heart. The British officers
hoped, by intercepting the approaching mutineers before
they obtained entrance to the city through any of the gates,
to crush the insurrection in its infancy. Even the most

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The Ayres of Studleigh.

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de^'^ondent among them had no idea how completely and
silenil^ the seeds of treachery and rel)ellion had been sown
within the city, and that before the first blow had been
struck every movement and its probable result had been
considered. They had forgotten to look to the state of
matters within the Royal Palace of Delhi itself. At the
Cashmere (late the mutineers were to meet with their first
repulse. Without a moment's hesitation Captain Ayre
ordered his men to fire on the rebels, but not a musket
moved.

" It's all up with us, Geoff," the Colonel whispered, and,
wheeling his horse round before the dusky body of men, he
exhorted them once more in a brief, passionate appeal to
stand true. His words received a sudden check, for one of
his own servants, a man whom he had befriended and
trusted to the uttermost, gave him a sabre thrust in the
back. It was the first taste of blood, and with a yell the
savage instincts cf the race rose, and in a moment the hand-
ful of gallant liritish soldiers were surrounded. They fought
dearly, not for life, for that they knew was forfeited, but the
thought of the dear, defenceless ones within the city nerved
each arm with a desperate courage. Colonel Beresford was
speedily left for dead, and in the midst of the melee was
borne away by his body-servant, assisted by one of the
Sepoys, whose fidelity returned at sight of his kind Colonel's
white face and bleeding form. Between them they managed
to convey him without further molestation to the Flagstaff
Tower. Geoffrey Ayre, with his lieutenants and sergeants,
fought bravely on ; and when he fell at last his sword had
despatched half a dozen of the mutineers. Scarcely waiting
to see whether their victims were really dead, the insurgents,
in company with the now revolted 52nd and the gate-guard,
marched on into the city. Geoffrey opened hit; eyes feebly,
and tried to raise himself on one arm. Close by a young
ensign, a mere boy, who had tasted battle that day for the
first time, was kneeling with his hands clasped before him.

In Deadly Peril.

"Harry!" said the Captain, in a faint whisper, but there
was no response; and when by a furtlicr effort (leoffrey
managed to crawl round nearer to him, lie saw that he was
dead. With a groan Geoffrey Ayre fell back, and rclai)sed
into unconsciousness, lying with his face upturned to the
merciless sun, the bright hair which Rachel had so often
caressed clotted on his brow. When he awakened again
there was some one bending over him, and he felt a hand
stealing into his watch pocket. Already the human jackals
were prowling about to rob the dead. With a muttered
exclamation the wounded man tried to raise himself again,
and his hand stretched out seeking for his sword. But the
murderer was before him, and so Geoffrey Ayre died by a
treacherous hand, his own sword the weapon which dealt
the blow. There were many such scenes, and many even
more horrible, witnessed in the old Indian city that bright
May day — scenes which go to make up one of the darkest
pages of British history.

Meanwhile, in the Flagstaff Tower the refugees waited in
a state of painful uncertainty, not knowing how far the
mutiny had spread, nor anything indeed of what was
happening in the cit)'. It was evidently, however, in a
state of revolt and commotion, and there was no hope left
that any Europeans who had trusted themselves to the
mercy of the insurgents could have escaped with their
lives. To add to the horrors of the day, the scum of the
populace and the wild gipsy marauders from without the
city followed in the rear of the Sepoys, and finished the
work of destruction they had begun. By three o'clock in
the afternoon there was scarcely a living English person in
Delhi save those in the tower, and the whole plain on which
the city stood was like one vast conflagration, with the flames
of the burning bungalows. It became apparent to the refu-
gees in the tower that they could not long hope to escape
the attention of the mob. The building itself stood on a
good site, and was very strong. They had two guns and a

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TJie Ayres of Studlcigh.

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plentiful supply of ammunition ; and the commandant was
not without hope of being able to hold the place till aid
should come from without. The ladies, themselves, instead
of giving way to fear or nervousness, kept up bravely, and
even volunteered to assist in keeping the guns loaded, but
before the day closed, it became apparent that the tower
could : ■ Ion :' be considered as a refuge. Part of the
38th re^' iUt.-^ the main body of which had already followed
the mutir. • .vis in the tower, and the wr tched inmates
watched them Wii'. a fearful and agonising interest, won-
dering how long they could be depended on. Since the
Colonel had bcjn brought into the tower there had been no
further news fvom without. In one of the inner apartments
of the tower, towards the close of that terrible day, the
women were gathered, sitting quite quietly, with white,
grave faces, which yet indicated the highest courage and
endurance. RarliCl kept poor Baba close in her arms, and
sometimes even smiled in response to his childish chatter,
but between them few words passed. Major Elton's delicate
wife, whose nerves had been shattered by the anxieties of the
past weeks, appeared to have become imbued with a new
and amazing fortitude. Her pale, worn face betrayed no
sign of fear, and she was even able to impart courage to
others. Rachel could not but look at her sometimes in
simple wonder. Lady Vane was satirical and indifferent,
accepting these extraordinary circumstances with philosophy,
and expecting nothing but death. So they sat huddled
together, a melancholy band, waiting the development of
events. They were not, however, very long kept in
suspense.

Late m the afternoon, when the ladies were partaking of
a little meagre refreshment, the door of their apartment
suddenly opened, and Sir Randal came in, followed by
Mrs Ayre's nurse, Azim, whom they had left behind at
the l)ungalow in the morning. Rachel sprang up, her
face flushing with expectancy and newly inspired hope.*

In Deadly Peril.

"Oh, Azini, have you any news of the Sahib?" she asked
hastily ; but the native mournfully shook his head, and un-
winding his turban from his head gave into her hand a
little packet wrapped in a linen handkerchief.

"Sahib no more. Azim bring these to Mem Sahib.
Them precious to her."

Tears sprang to the eyes of all present as the young wife
unfolded the parcel and revealed a lock of bright hair and
a soldier's medal, which told their own tale. Kachel lifted
her eyes to the servant's face, and by that lo^k oound him
to her anew for life.

" Where did you get these, Azim ? "

"From poor Sahib — dead at the gal Azim seek him
all day, find him, and bring these to Mem ^i hi'i, and more
money and jewels from bungalow, all turned down," he
said, eagerly ; and taking from his ai^.p.a robe another
packet, he handed to his mistress all the money and the
trinkets, each precious because of its history and its
memory, which, in the haste of the morning's flight, she
had left behind.

" God bless you, Azim," she said, and her hand trembled
as she took her treasures from the dusky hands. " I have
nothing to give but thanks in the meantime ; yes, and
Baba's love. See how eager he is to go to you. Take him
again. As long as I live, I shall never forget what you
have done for me and mine this day. This is priceless."

She touched the bright curl with tender finger, wrapped
it up, and placed it in the bodice of her gown.

" One could almost forgive the traitors for the sake of
this one honest soul," said Sir Randal, grufily. "Well,
ladies, there is nothing for us new but to make the best of
our way out of this beastly hole, and if we ever reach the
shores of England in safety, we'll know, I hope, to stay there."

" Must we go now ? " asked Mrs Elton, anxiously,
while at Sir Randal's words Azim betrayed the liveliest
satisfaction.

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The Ayres of Studleigh.

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"Yes, ma'am. A/im says every soul of them's in revolt,
and that we can't depend on those we have with u? here ;
so as soon as the sun sets we'll set out in the carriage which
was to take you to Calcutta."

A few hasty preparations were made, and in the dusk of
the evening the carriage, containing the three ladies and the
child, drove away from the Flagstaff Tower. It was driven
by Azim, who had been accustomed before the birth of the
child to drive his mistress in a pony carriage. Kurnaul was
the destination agreed upon, as it could be reached by road
without crossing any river. Sir Randal and other officers
promised to follow as speedily as was practicable on horse-
back, if possible, and if not, on foot.

Husbands and wives parted that dreadful day with no
outward sign of pain ; the emotions were pent in their
bosoms, paralysed by the horror of circumstances and
apprehension for the future. It was a living death for each
every hour. The little company of women sat silent in the
carriage, holding their breath, as the faithful servant drove
through the city, expecting every moment to be their last.
But they were fortunate in escaping from the busy thorough-
fares, and as they left the din behind them, poor Mrs Elton
leaned back in her seat and wearily closed her eyes. With
one arm Rachel held her child tightly to her breast, and
the other hand clasped that of Lady Vane. Both seemed to
find some comfort in that silent touch. Suddenly the
stillness was broken by the tramp of feet and the sound of
angry voices. One shot was fired, then the carriage came
to an abrupt stop, and they heard Azim arguing wildly in
the native tongue. But louder and angrier voices drowned
his, and presently the carriage door was rudely opened, and
a flaring torch held up before the faces of the affrighted
women.

" What do you want ? " asked I.ady Vane, in fluent
Hindustanee. " We are only poor fugitive women fleeing
from death. Is it money ? We have none."

iliiliiSpi!

/// Deadly Peril.

" Vcs, I have some, if they will take it ard let us go on,"
said Rachel, (juickly, and opening out the packet A/im had
given her held out some gold j)ieces, which caused the
dusky faces to light up with a savage glow of delight.

"Come down," said one, peremptorily, and just then
A/.im appeared at the opposite door, and advised them to
alight and give up such things as they had. Fortunately
their assailants were only a hand of gil)sy marauders, such
as infest the environs of all Indian cities — consetpiently
their object was rather plunder than murder.

Implicitly trusting the faithful Azim, the ladies at once
alighted, and though they stood alone on the edge of a path-
less jungle, at the mercy of a score of savage-looking nu-ii,
they i)reserved a wonder'"ul degree of calmness. The ring-
leader pointed to their ear-rings and rings and other httle
ornaments — all of which were silently given up. Under
l)retence of unfastening her brooch, Rachel slip[)ed her
wedding-ring into her mouth, and so kept that precious
symbol of her brief married life. Lady \'ane wore a black
bonnet trimmed with jets, which took the eye of the
marauders, and she was obliged to give it up.

When they had thus robbed them of every ornament and
some of their outer clothing, to the dismay of the fugitives,
they jum[)ed into the carriage and drove away back towards
Delhi, heedless of the frantic remonstrances of A/.im, who
ran after them for some distance, upbraiding them with their
treachery.

Left alone in the darkening night, without money or food,
or sufficient clothing or means of conveyance, the fugitives
were indeed in a pitiable plight.

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CHAPTER IX.

.,|iii,j:i;i

THE FLIGHT FROM DELHI.

HAT is to become of us now?" asked Lady
\'ane in her cool, abrupt fasliion. " Perhaps
after all it was a mistake to leave the city,"
" Death would only have come to us
more swiftly there," murmured Mrs Elton, faintly, and
sitting down on a stone by the wayside, drooped her pale
face on her hands.

" Don't let us lose hope," said Rachel, cheerily, as she
hushed her baby to her breast. " I have great faith in Azim.
Here he comes. We will follow his directions. Perhaps
we may yet be saved."

Azim came back with his head dejectedly bent, his face
wearing a look of distress and keen anxiety.

" What to be done now, Mem Sahib ? " he asked, very
humbly,

" We are waiting for you to direct us," Rachel replied
quickly.

" They say certain death to the Feringhee is to be found
all along the way to Kurnaul,** he said, rapidly, in Hindus-
tanee. " They are vile, but they speak truth. What is to
be done ? "

*' Will you go on, Rachel, with the child and risk it ? "
asked Lady Vane, pointedly.

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The Flight from Delhi.

"No — wc had better go hack so far, and then join the
road to Mecrut," said Racliel, decidedly. "Dear Mrs
lilton, are you ecjiial to any exertion? We must go ou
somehow. It is im[)()ssil)le to stay here."

" Oil, yes, I can go on, but have you forgotten we have
the Jumna to cross before we can touch the road to
Meerut?"

" There may be a boat. Had we not better risk it,
Azim ? "

Azim nodded his approval, and held out his arms for
Baha, who, feeling cold and hungry, was beginning to
fret.

"There may i)e boat. If not, we must cross. It will be
host. I thought so at first, though Mem Sahibs said
Kurnaul."

" Let us go on, then," said Lady Vane, and, giving an
arm to Mrs Elton, she signified to Azim to lead the way.
'i'heir progress was necessarily slow. T. ^ ladies were already
worn out with excitement and fatigue, and more than once
they had to seek the friendly shelter of the dense trees on
either side of the rough road to escape the observation of
persons they met. In the darkness it was, of course, im-
possible to distinguish friend from foe. At these times,
when crouch-' ; behind trees holding their breath in terror,
it was strange how still I'he poor child kept, never uttering a
sound. It, indeed, appeared as if he were in some degree
conscious of their imminent peril. Shortly the moon shone
out with a vivid and steady light, and revealed to them the
glitltfing windings of the Jumna, which lay between them
and the road they had decided to take. Azim, addressing
himself to Lady Vane, because she perfectly understood his
own tongue, explained that further up there was a shallower
and narrower part of the river which it might be possible for
them to ford. So they kept on again in silenre, following
the faithful servant, who was their only hope. If he proved
treacherous, nothing but death could be in store. Even

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T/ie Ayres of Studleigh.

had Rachel distrusted him, she believed that the clinging of
the child's soft arms about his neck would appeal to his
best feelings, and she was right. Love for his charge, deep
anxiety for his safety and that of his mother, were the only
feelings in the breast of the Hindoo. Nothing but death
itself would release him from the obligations with which
love had bound him.

After a time they came to a place where the river took a
wider sweep, and which, to the practised eye of the native,
indicated that the water must be shallower. Here he
paused, and giving the child into the arms of his mistress,
signified his intention of trying the ford first himself. The
j)oor ladies crouching in the thicket — for even in that lonely
spot they could hear occasionally the sounds of voices and
the crack of rifles — svatclied with agonising suspense the
passage across the river. At one part nothing was visible
but the turbaned head ; but as he was not a very tall man,
they were hopeful that they would be able to follow in
safety. Directly he found the water growing shallower
towards the other side, he turned and came rapidly back to
the bank, and holding out his arms for the child, advised
the ladies to follow as quickly as possible, as there were
certainly some persons ai)proaching, and the chances were
that they might be part of the mutineers skirmishing about
the byroads in search of fugitives. Without a moment's
hesitation the ladies stepped into the water, although, at
the cold touch of the stream, they could scarcely repress
their exclamations. It was a desperate alternative, yet not
one of them shrank from it. Before they were fifty yards
out there was a great noise on the road they had just left,
and a company of Sepoys, led by one on horseback,
swarmed down to the bank, shouting on the fugitives to
stop. They never looked back, but held bravely on,
though the force of the current in mid-stream was like to
sweep them off their feet. A new danger assailed them
when some bullets came whizzing past them, fortunately

The FligJit from DeUii.

aimed too high to injure, and they escaped in safety to the
other side, and immediately plunged into the jungle. As
they proceeded, Rachel noticed that the Hindoo staggered
once or twice as he walked ; and as she stepped up to
inquire what ailed him, she was horrified to see his clothes
stained witli blood.

"Are you hurt, Azim ?" she inquired, anxiously. "See,
give me Baba. Oh, my poor, faithful friend ! " She
caught the child just in time, for with a groan the Hindoo
staggered again and fell to the ground. " He has been
shot," said Lady Vane, kneeling down beside him and
endeavouring to staunch the wound with her handkerchief,
"and we can do nothing for him. God help us, Rachel,
what is to become of us all ? "

They grouped themselves disconsolately about the pros-
trate body of their guide and protector, and looked at each
other in blank despair. It was the dead of night, and they
were alone in the jungle, dripping wet, cold and hungry,
with no prospect before them but a lingering death. The
glazing eye of the Hindoo warned them that he had
received a mortal hurt, and that he could not live to see
the morning light. With her fretting child clasped close in
her arms Rachel knelt down among the thick underbrush
and uttered aloud a few words of earnest prayer. It was
indeed a case in which only Divine aid could avail, and
somehow, when she ceased speaking, a sense of resignation
and peace seemed to creep into each heart. It was a grief
of no ordinary kind to Rachel that she was forced to sit
inactive and see her faithful servant die. They crouched
together in the dense shelter of the jungle, wiih the white
night dews lying thickly around them, shivering, and their
teeth chattering, but afraid to move or speak lest they
should be betrayed. So the dawn found them, and they
sorrowfully turned to go upon their way, leaving the dead
boc'y of Azim behind. They could give him no burial,
except to lay some branches aboVv' him, and Rachel t.'. rough

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TJic Ay yes of StudleigJu

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choking tears said a few words of the service over him, Baba
crying all the time, not understanding why his nurse lay so
still and would not dandle him in his arms.

Faint from want of food, they were glad to pick some of
the wild fruits as they passed along. They spoke none, for
they could not encourage each other ; and it was better to
keep silence. They had no sort of idea what direction they
were taking, nor what prospect was before them. Unless
they could speedily come to some place where food could
be procured, they must sink by the wayside, and die from
exhaustion. When the sun rose, it dried their garments
certainly, but blistered their feet, for they had been robbed
of their shoes as well as their head-gear. In the distance
they saw smoke arising behind some trees, and when they
drew nearer, in great fear and trembling, they saw that
they were approaching a Hindoo village. They paused
without the precincts, and held a consultation as to what
they should do.

" If it is a disloyal place, they'll only kill us," said Lady
Vane; "and provided they do it quickly, I don't much
care. What prospect have we of ultimate safety ? Three
women alone can never reach Meerut."

" Let me go and risk it," said Mrs Eiton, quietly. " If I
don't come back, you will know that I am dead, and you
can keep away from the place. It does not matter for me ;
what have I to live for now ? You, Mrs Ayre, must live for
your poor, dear child, and you, dear Lady Vane, may yet be
restored to your husband. Let me go."

Rachel looked at her with astonishment, and her eyes
filled with tears. In the European society of Delhi Mrs
Elton had been known as a somewhat selfish, complaining
invalid, who taxed to the utmost her good-natured husband's
consideration and patience. She was indeed the last person
from whom heroism or unselfishness was to be expected ;
but the exigencies of their situation had called the nobler
part of her nature into play, and she was not only willini;

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The Flight frvn Delhi.

eyes
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but eager to sacrifice herself, if it could be any benefit to
her companions in misfortune.

" Let us all go," said Lady Vane, quickly. " We can-
not permit you to leave us. Let us share the peril together
to the end."

But Mrs Elton was firm.

" It will be right for me to go. Something whispers it
to me. I have been too long a burden and an anxiety to
others. My husband cheerfully laid down his life. Let
me have the meagre satisfaction of following his example,
since I cannot no\, utone to him for what I thoughtlessly
made him suffer for years. Please (jod, he will forgive me
for it, yonder."

She raised her eyes to Heaven, .-^nd then, with a steadfast
and beautiful expression on her face, bade them good-bye.

" Wait here, perhaps for an hour, and if I do not return
or send a messenger you will know I have come to grief,
(lood-byf^ — (lod keep you, and bring you safely out of these
iearful dangers."

With a hurried kiss she left them, and made her way
quickly towards the village.

"Truth is indeed stranger than fiction, Rachel," said
Lady Vane, musingly, as she watched the retreating figure
vanish among the trees. " This awful business has made a
woman out of Augusta Pulton. I hope I shall profit by it,
too. If I ever see Randal again, I'll be a better wife to
him. You poor darling, sit down, you look fit to die.
There is nothing for us but to wait for a while. We must
just guess the time. Oh, Rachel, what do we look like ? —
guys at a country fair ! "

She gave way to a fit of hysterical laughter, which some-
what alarmed Rachel, but it passed away, and they sat in
absolute silence, waiting and praying in their inmost hearts
for deliverance. Rachel was growing painfully anxious
about her little boy. He had had no food for twenty hours,
and his fretfulncss was now stilled into 9, slrange kind of

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The Ayrcs of Studlcigh.

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apathy which was almost like unconsciousness. Although
thankful that he did not unnerve and harass them by loud
crying, she almost wished that he would make some sign of
life. To lose husband and child Rachel felt .vould be to
take from her all that made life sweet. She did not,
indeed, realise yet that she had lost Geoffrey — the whole
experiences of the last two days were like the shadows of
some fearful dream.

"There's a foot," cried Lady Vane, nervously, breaking
the deep silence. " God help us, Rachel. Perhaps our end
has come."

Both started up, and beheld approaching a man whose
dress proclaimed him to be a fakheer or mendicant devotee,
such as are to be found in every Hindoo village, They
stood looking at him as he approached, with the most
intense questioning, and were somewhat reiieved to see
that his face, though olid, betrayed neither hatred nor
vindictiveness.

When a fev/ yards from them he stopped, and made a
hurried sign for them to follow him.

Lady Vane stepped fo: •. ,-d, and in his own language
asked him if he ,vere fri( riiilv His face brightened a little,
and he made answer that he had given the other lady shelter
and food, and was prepared to do the same for them, so
long as it was safe for him to do so. He explained, as
they engerly followed him, that his village was still disaf-
fected and quite friendly towards the English, though it was
a great risk for them to show it. With what joy did these
exhausted women follow the good-hearted Hindoo along a
byway to his hut, which was situated in a retired grove a
little u-ay removed from the other houses; and there they
found Mrs Elton partaking of a rude but welcome meal,
coiT^'sting of chupatties, unleavened «"nkes of Lidian meal,
whicn she washed down with a drink of water, and sweet
ened with the juice of the tamarind. 'Jlie fakheer looked
compassionately at the child, and from a little rt^cess

The Flight from Delhi.

brought out a cup of milk set aside lor his own midday
meal. He bade them cat to their satisfaction, and then
rest on the rude bed of rushes in the corner. Promising
that they should not be molested unless the proximity of
the Sepoys should hasten their departure, he left them in
peace. Never had food and shelter appeared so delicious
as to these poor fugitives, and relying on the fidelity of the
man who had befriended them, they gladly rested all day,
sleeping and watching by turns. At sundown they were
disturbed by the return of the fakheor, accompanied by
another man, who turned out to be ^ Gc.-aan zemmdar or
landowner, who had become to all purpost;s a native of the
country. He had not, however, forgrXtei kis Fatherland
entirely, and was anxious to befriend the Maffkah if possible.
He asked the ladies to come to his houHc, oeing an

important one in the village would a&acd - .1 more
secure shelter than that of the poor but kimd-he; - iki • ',
and he further raised their spirits by tclli' m he aad

sent a message to Meerut whicii would Cc-. thei.-

relief.

For three days the fugiti\ cs were hidden m iht zeminda' •;
house, often at his own peril, for the village was frequently
visited by bands of victo ious Sepoys, whr would have
massacred the ladies without mercy, and leir succourer
with them. On the evening of the third day a little band
of horsemen rode through the village and drew up before
the zemindar's house. At their approach the ladies fled as
usual to their hiding-place, but when hi .y Vane, with her
ear to the door, heard an English voice speaking below,
she gave a cry of dehght —

"It is Randal's voice. Thank God. Thank God !"

So they were rescued from their more imrriinent peril,
and conveyed in safety to Meerut, and then e when oppor-
tunity offered down to the coast en route for .England.

They were among the first of the very few who escaped
tlie earliest horrors of the Mutiny, and were fortanat-e in

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T/ie Ayres of Studleigh.

reaching Calcutta on the morning of the day before a
homeward bound vessel sailed. But the little company
who had shared such perils together had to part at Calcutta,
for in the hospital there Rachel's second child prematurely
saw the light.

CHAPTER X.

THE AGONY OF SUSPENSE.

j^T had been a hitter spring in England. Never had
^ the treacherous East wind hngered so long. In the

first week of June trees and hedgerows j^resented a
strange, blasted appearance as if some blighting
breath had passed over them. In the Studleigh woods
there was scarcely a violet or primrose to be seen, and the
buds of the mayflower withered ere they came to bloom.
The fitful sunshine as it peeped out behind the lowering
clouds revealed none of the beauty with which they usually
clothed park and lawns. Old people and invalids were
weary with the sickness of hope deferred. A cloud hung
over Nature's face, and upon many hearts the spring of that
memorable year laid a burden never more to be removed
on earth.

In the grey and chilly morning of one of these gloomy
days Christopher Abbot walked across the fields from Pine
Edge to Studleigh. There seemed to be a change for the
worse in the old yeoman, and his tall figure looked quite
bent, and his step had lost its old elastic swing. His face
was careworn and anxious, too ; he appeared like a man
bowed down with care. He looked across his wheat-field
as he skirted the edge of it, noting its backward condition,

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7he Afrcs of Stiidlcigfi.

and even wondering when there would be harvest if the sun
refused to do its duty ; but his innermost heart was filled
with anxieties in which the farm had no part. As he strode
across the park he heard the gong from the house, and,
looking at his watch, saw that it was half-past nine. But
they breakfasted late always at the Manor. He went up the
steps to the front door and gave the bell a vigorous pull. A
housemaid crossing the hall saw him and came out at once.
" Good morning, my lass. Is the Squire up ? " asked the
farmer, in that courteous, kindly way which made him
adored by n.11 his own dependants.

" Yes, Mr Abbot. He breakfasts always in his dressing-
room. My lady has just gone in to the morning-room."

" If you show me into the business-room I can wait till
the Squire his finished breakfast."

" Come in, then, please sir, and I'll let the Squire know
you have come."

" Thank you, my girl."

He stepped into the little room opening off the outer
ball, and, having closed the door upon him, the girl ran
upstairs. She was not many minutes gone, and presently
knocked lightly at the room where Christopher Abbot was
waiting.

" Please, sir, the Squire says v/ill you come up at once,
and not mind him being at breakfast ? " she said, and, leaving
his hat and stick on the table, he followed her upstairs.

"Good morning, Mr Abbot," said the Squire's genial
voice, and he stretched out his hand from the couch,
though he made no effort to rise. A little table with the
breakfast service on it was drawn up beside him, and the
room was so warm that for a moment the farmer felt it
overpowering. It was none too warm for the delicate
Squire of Studleigh.

" Lazy mortal, am I not ; but there's no use making a
pretence of strength when there is none. These East winds
slay me, so I am obliged to give in. How are you ? "

TJie Agony of Suspense.

•'Quite well, sir, in body, but I'm in agony of mind.
There's been no Indian mail for three weeks. This is the
day, and when the post brought nothing, I came over to
see whether you had any news."
The Squire shook his head.

" I have none. We are men, Abbot, and must face the
worst. I fear there can be no doubt that the revolution in
India has begun. There's the Times, just ope!i it out.
There may be news of some kind."

Christopher Abbot eagerly t(>»)k the paper, tore off its
wrapper, and turned to the siimmary : then a deep groan
escaped his lips, and he covered his face with his hands.
The Squire sprang up and looked at the paper which had
fluttered from the old man's nerveless grasp.
"Outbreak in India.

" Mutiny and massacre at Meerut. Capture of Delhi by
the mutineers. Massacre of Europeans."

The headings were sensational and startling enough.
Details necessarily of the most meagre description.
Nothing but the bare facts were stated, but they were
suggestive of a thousand possibilities and horrors.

" Don't give way, Mr Abbot," said the Squire, kindly,
and he laid his hand on the old man's shoulder in sympathy.
"Don't give up hope all at once. It is not at all likely that
all the British have lost their lives. I am certain the next
telegrams will be more reassuring. The first are always
unnec&ssarily alarming."

" I confess I haven't much hope, Squire ; and when
I think of my little girl, I can't bear it. She never had
a care at Pine Edge, no preparation for such things as
these."

" When she became a soldier's wife she accepted all the
hazards, Mr Abbot," said the Squire. " We must not lose
heart. See, I am not hopeless, though my brother is as
dear to me as your daughter is to you. Our interests are
equal, and we must strengthen each other."

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The Ay res of Studlcigh,

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A slight sigh escaped William Ayre's lips as he uttered
the last words ; and Abbot understood what that sigh
implied. There were none within these walls save himself
who took a kindly ana real interest in the young soldier.

" I'm an old man, Mr Ayre, and I have all an old man's
impatience," said the farmer impulsively. " Don't think
I'm reflecting on anything, sir. It was a proud day for me
when I gave Rachel to the Captain. He was worthy of
her, and that's a deal for me to say ; but you're a father
yourself, and you know what a father's feelings are."

" Yes, yes. I am not less concerned than you about my
poor dear sister," said the Squire in his delicate, considerate
way. " I have a great many cares. Abbot, and I confess
they are weighing on me. Look at me. You have not
seen me for some weeks. How do you think I am
looking?"

" Not well, sir. It would be a sin for me to say aught
else," said the farmer, with a catch in his voice.

" I am not well," answered the Squire, languidly, and
shaded his eyes for a moment with his hand. Then
suddenly he looked straight at the old man, with a faint,
melancholy smile. " In fact, Abbot, I am a dying man."

" Oh, I hope not. For God's sake, don't say it's so bad
as that !" exclaimed Christopher Abbot, with sudden passion.
"It's impossible that we can lose you."

" It is inevitable. Abbot. I've had them all at me, and
their verdict is unanimous. If I live through the summer,
which is not likely, if the weather continues as it is, the
autumn winds will cut me off. It has been a frightful
struggle, old friend. Life is sweet to us all, and I wanted
to live. But, through the mercy of God, I have learned my
lesson, and can say, * It is well.' "

" Oh, Mr Ayre, this is worse news than the Indian
revolt," cried Christopher Abbot, and he was perfectly
sincere in his words. " Can nothing be done ? "

The Squire shook his head.

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{ilililliili;

The Agony of Suspcuse.

" Nothing. They wanted me to go al)r()ad for the spring,
and I believe it might have prolonged my life for a few
weeks. But I had so much to do, and I was afraid I miglit
never come back to Studleigh."

He turned his eyes towards the wide window, which
coninianded a magnificent prospect ; one of the loveliest in
that lovely shire. Christopher Abl)ot understood, ay and
shared the painful yearning expressed in that long look.
William Ayre's hold on life with its many sweet ties had
been difficult to loose. The struggle had cost him more
than any one dreamed.

** Does her ladyship know?"

" I think she does. I have not spoken directly to her
yet. There are things in this life, Abbot, which require all
a strong man's strength, but I must gather up my courage
soon. Well, we can only wait for further news, which I
believe will be more reassuring. Try not to anticipate the
worst."

" I will try. You are a lesson to me sir, old as I am.
I did not think I should have lived to see such a sorrow
come upon Studleigh."

" Ay, the old place has seen many changes. There will
be a long regency. My son, poor little chap, will not be
able to fill my shoes for many years. But Gillot is a wise
and faithful friend. The place will be safe in his care.
Are you in a hurry this morning?"

"No, I have nothing to do at Pine Edge but wander up
and down watching the slow growth of the corn, and
tormenting myself about Rachel," said the old man with a
dismal smile.

"Sit down, then. We may not have such an opportunity
for long. I have other things to speak to you about. I've
been setting my house in order — a man's duty in health,
but doubly so when health leaves him. I have not for-
gotten little Clement, Abbot."

" There was no need, sir. All I have will go to Rachel's

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The Ay res of SUidleigh.

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boy," said the old man, with a quick touch of pride which
made the Squire smile.

" I know that ; but my brother's son required some
recognition from his father's kindred," he said, pointedly.
"I have left Stonecroft in trust for him. It will be his
when he is one-and-twenty."

Christopher Abbot looked perplexed, and hesitated a
moment before he spoke.

" There was no need — though I cannot but say it is

generous. But, but " A sensitive flush mounted to

the old man's brow : " Lady Emily might justly feel
aggrieved. The Croft is too big a slice to take from one
cousin to give to another."

" If my son gives a faithful account of his stewardship of
Studleigh he will do very well," replied the Squire. "\ou
are a little hard on my wife. Abbot," he added with a smile.
" She is not devoid of human feelings, though she did not
approve of the marriage, which has doubly cemented the
old friendship between you and me."

" No, no, sir, I did not mean to imply any such thing,"
said the old man, hastily. " Lady Emily had a perfect
right to her opinion, and I never thought the less of her
for it."

" Well, I tell you these things so that you may know the
confidence I have in you, and. Abbot, it is my desire that
you shall take your place as a relative at my funeral, I "

" Oh, Mr Ayre, I can't listen," cried the old man, starting
to his feet. " I won't listen, you can't leave us. You'll
see me out yet. I'm seventy-two, and you are not half my
age. I can't bear to hear you speak like that "

" It is true though. Abbot," said the Squire, with his sad,
sweet smile. " And that is my desire, which you will not
forget. I shall leave my instructions in writing so that
they will be carried out. Good-bye just now, and keep up
your heart about the exiles in India. I shall write to a
friend at the War Office this morning, and get him to send

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The Agony of Suspense.

me the latest and fullest particulars. I hope I'll live to see
them both in England yet, and to hold my Anglo-Indian
nephew in my arms."

They shook hands in silence, but the old man's eyes
were dim as he looked into the noble face of the Squire.
He tried to utter something of what was in his heart, but
words failed him, and with another fervent grip he hurriedly
left the room. As he stepped from the stairs to the hall,
the breakfast-room door opened, and Lady Emily appeared
leading her little boy by the hand. She looked very lovely
in her white morning gown, and the flowers in her belt
were not fresher than the delicate bloom on her face. She
coloured slightly with surprise at sight of the farmer ; and,
returning his bow with a slight inclination of her haughty
head, withdrew into the room until he had passed out of
the hall. Christopher Abbot, however, was too much en-
grossed with other thoughts to pay any heed to thj scant
courtesy shown to him by the Squire's wife. When she
heard the hall door close, she took the child upstairs to his
nurse, and promising that he should see his father in a
little, went alone to the Squire's dressing-room.

" I see Abbot has been here, William," she said, in her
quiet, cool way. " I hope he did not interfere with your
breakfast ? Have you eaten anything ? "

*' No, but I have drunk all the coffee, and taken the half
01" an egg, so don't scold, Emily," he said, with the serenest
of smiles. " How lovely you are ? It is as good as a walk
out of doors to see vour freshness."

She smiled at the pretty compliment, and laid her fair
hands with a caressing touch on his head. Uut her tender
moods did not last long.

"What did Abbot want so early, William?" she asked,
presently.

" News from India. There it is in the Times. I suspect
tile worst has hardly been told."

" Js there any disturbance,"

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The Ayres of Studleigh.

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She took up the paper (luickly and ran her eyes over the
paragraphs.

" Delhi in the hands of the mutineers ! Why, Geoffrey
must have come to grief."

" I confess I am more concerned for his wife and child
than for him, Emily. We dare not try to imagine their
circumstances."

"But, surely, a few native mutineers can soon be con-
quered by British soldiers ? "

" Yes ; but where are the British soldiers, Emily ? I
don't suppose there are a hundred all told in Delhi at this
moment."

"I hope for your sake, dear, that he will be safe," she
said, with unusual gentleness.

" I hope so ; but it will be an unequal strife. I was
writing to Grantly when you came in, asking for more
particulars. He will know the latest. Emily, I'm sorry
for poor old x\bbot, Geoffrey's wife was all he had."

" He need not have been so eager for her to go to India,
then," she replied, with a perceptible hardening of her
voice. " He must accept the consequences now."

A slight shadow flitted across the Squire's brow.

"Emily, will you allow your prejudice to rule you all
your life ? Will you never give a sister's hand to Geoffrey's
wife?"

" Never."

She answered calmly, and without hesitation, and with
no change in face or voice.

"Not even for my sake?" he pleaded, looking at her
with eyes which ought to have conquered.

" What is the good of opening up that vexed question
to-day, William?" she asked, with a touch of petulance.
" I thought it was buried, and that we should have no
more of it. I have my duty to my kindred and my position,
William. It must always be wrong to set a bad precedent."

" Emily, I shall npt hav«? many more favours to ask. Dq

!i ■ i:i

The Agony of Suspense.

not let the brief span of life which remains to me l)e env
hittcred by this estrangement," he said, earnestly. " I ask
you to write to my sister, as a dying request."

" Oh, you are cruel ! " she cried, with heaving bosom and
proudly quivering lip, and turning from him she left the
room.

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CHAPTER XL

NEWS FROM A FAR COUNTRY.

|HE heat of summertide had blessed the waiting land
Ij^R^i once more, and yet to many, many English hearts
^Kl% the beauty of the sunshine was intolerable in the
dark shadow of their own painful suspense. For
weeks there had been no news of any kind from the re-
motest parts of India. A horrible silence, which suggested
possibilities more awful than they dared contemplate, fol-
lowed immediately upon the first news of the outbreak.
The time came when men could have prayed that that veil
of silence had never been lifted, since it hid sufferings far
exceeding what the most gloomy mind could have antici-
pated. On a fine autumn evening Sir Randal and Lady
Vane alighted at Ayreleigh Station, and hired a conveyance
to take them to Studleigh. In order to relieve the suspense
of those who loved (ieoffrey Ayre and his wife they had
travelled straight from Portsmouth, preferring to bring their
information with them. It did not involve any great sacri-
fice, since they had no near kindred of their own impatient
to see them, still it was a kindly act.

"Tell him to drive us first to Pine Edge, Randal," said
Lady Vane, as she leaned out of the carriage. I cannot
get that fine old man out of my head. It is more trying for
him than for the Ayres, because h^ is so lonely."

Nezvs from a Far Country

Sir Randal nodded, and to Pine Edge they were accord-
ir.gly first driven. Never had the picturescjue old place
looked more lovely than in the sweet hush of the autumn
night, and as Lady Vane thought of the poor young widow,
sick, perhaps, to death, in a foreign hospital, her eyes filled
with tears.

The old man, who for weeks had not been able to rest
night nor day, was wandering about the garden, and seeing
the approaching carriage hastened forward to meet it. His
ruddy face paled at sight of Lady Vane, and he gave a quick
start and an eager look beyond her, his eyes mutely seeking
another face. JShe shook her head, with a slight sad smile
as she leaned out of the carriage with both hands out-
stretched.

"No, I have not brought Rachel, Mr Abbot — only news
of her. She was only able to come with us as far as
Calcutta."

" Was she hurt ? " he asked, with a direct sinij)licity which
made Lady Vane's tears well afresh, while Sir Randal
vigorously coughed as he too shook hands with the tenant
of Pine Edge.

"Oh. no, only the excitement and the fatigue of our
flight were too much for her. She had a little daughter
horn on the morning we sailed. I saw her. She sent her
love to you, and she will be home to you as soon as she can
travel."

" Home to me ! The Captain ? " said the old man,

and came to an abrupt pause, though his eyes had still that
eager, pathetic questioning in their depths.

"The Captain fell, like the brave British soldier he was,
fighting the enemy to the last."

Christopher Abbot turned away and took a few steps
across the lawn.

Then Sir Randal spoke — " Yes, and he sent half a dozen
or more of these black fiends to perdition with his good
sword before he fell. It was a hero's death, sir."

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96 T//e Ay res of Studleigh.

" Yes, yes, but r.iy poor girl ! Who is with her ? Oh
my lady, is she all alone in that far away heathen place in
her hour of trouble ? "

" No, no ; had she been alone I should scarcely have left
her, after what we have been to each other during the last
few years, Mr Abbot," said Lady Vane quickly. " She has
Mrs Elton with her. She may have mentioned her name in
her letter to you. The poor Major was killed assisting us
to escape. She is a kind, motherly woman, and she will
accompany Rachel to England whenever she is permitted to
leave the hospital."

" How do you happen to be here, Sir Randal ? Is the
mutiny at an end? There has been no news from the
East for some weeks."

" At an end ! " Sir Randal gloomily tugged his grey
whiskers, and his face wore its stei-. >, bitterest look.
"It's only beginning, sir — only beg n- g. God knows
when it will end, or how. We've lost everything, but are
thankful to have escaped with our lives. There was no
use staying in India to see the whole thing going to ruin
and be slaughtered ourselves. It's ^a ghastly business,
but only what I've been expecting for years. I only want
to know what these idiots think of themselves now," be
added, with a vague jerk of his thumb, which only his
wife understood.

What Sir Randal called the apathy of the Britisii
Government had long been a sore point with him, and
one which he never failed to adorn with the strongest
language.

"Well, well, talking won't mend it," said Lady Vane,
good-naturedly. "We heard at Portsmouth to-day that
the poor fellows on their way home from the Crimea have
been shipped for India. It is no easy thing o be a soldier
in these troublous times."

" We are going on to Studleigh now with our news.
Are they all well ? "

I^ews from a Far Country,

"No, my lady, the Squire, God bless him, is a dying
man."

" What ! "

Both looked inexpressihly shocked.

" It is true. He has been ailing all spring, and though
the warm weather revived him a little, he has gone back
to where he was. Not that you'd think it to look at him,
lie is so bright and happy. He was here only the day
before yesterday trying to cheer the old man uj) ; but he
knows, and we all know to our sorrow, that his days are
numbered."

"I question then, Randal, if our visit may not hasten
the end," said Lady Vane, hesitatingly. "The news of
his brother's death will be a fearful shock to him."

" I don't think it," said Christopher Abbot, slowly. " It
seems to me that when folks are coming near to the other
world they get glimpses of the future. When the Captain
and my little girl went away, he said to me he thought he'd
never see them again, and he said the other morning he
had a feeling that he'd be seeing Geoff, as he calls him,
sooner than we thought. I knew he meant in Heaven ;
but I couldn't say a word. I'm an old man. Sir Randal, and
I can't control my feelings as I used. I seem to have broken
down — to be like a little child since Rachel went away."

" Upon my word, it makes one lose taste of life to hear
so much bad news," said Sir Randal. " I can't under-
stand it. Why, there never was a more useful man on the
face of the earth than William Ayre ; and now he's got to
die in his prime. There's no sort of sense or justice in it."

" It is hid from us in the meantime, at least," said Lady
Vane, gently. "Well, good evening, Mr Abbot. If we re-
main a day or two at Studleigh we shall see you again. If
not, you may believe that your dear daughter is being well
cared for. The doctor assured me that there was no appre-
hension of danger for her, and the child appeared very lively.
They will make music for you yet in the old house."

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T/ie Ayrcs of Studici^/i.

"Ay, ay, I hope so," said the old man, a trifle sadly,
"(lood evening, my lady; and I thank you for all your
kintlncss to my girl in India. Often, often she has said
that you have filled a mother's plaee to her."

"If I did so, she has heen a daughter to me, Mr Ahhot.
If you knew the estimation in whieh she was held in Delhi,
even you would be pleased. Come, then, Randal — let us

go"

A few minutes later they were being driven rapidly up

the avemie to Studleigh, and to their astonishment the
S(iuire himself appeared on the steps to welcome them.
He was certainly very thin, but his cheeks were flushed,
and his eyes too bright for perfect health. He was
evidently greatly surprised ; and there was undisguised
eagerness in his manner as he gave them his hearty greet-
ing -'* Where have you come from ? We thought you
were besieged in Delhi," he said, quickly. "What news
have you for us ? "

" Not good, my dear fellow, not good," answered .Sir
Randal, and Lady \'ane hurried into the house, and
caught uj) the little heir as he toddled across the hall.
She was glad when Lady Emily, hearing voices, came out
of the hall, and in the bustle of a new greeting she escaped
hearing Sir Randal breaking the sad news to the Squire.

" Here we are, a pair of runaways. Emily, how are
you ? " she said, almost hysterically. " How Willie has
grown ; a great fellow. I should not have known him.
We have come direct from Portsmouth ; only landed this
morning."

" Any news of Geoffrey ? " asked Lady Emily, with an
apprehensive glance through the open hall door to the
terrace where the gentlemen stood.

"Yes, poor Geoffrey was one of the first to fall. Let
me go in here a moment, Emily. I don't want to see Mr
Ayre just yet Randal is telling him, I see."

Is he dead?" asked Lady Emily, quickly, her delicate

((

News from a Far Country.

colour paling slightly as she luld open the drawing room

door.

I«uly Vane hastily nodded, and followed her into the

room.

Shot down, trying to keep the rebels from enliring the
city — one of the first of the heroes this awful revolt will
eost us," she said, with a shudder.

" How did you get home to ICngland so (|uickly? Were
you at Simla, or away from Delhi before tiie outbreak?"

" No, we were in it. When I can calmly speak of it,
I'll tell you things which will keep you awake at nights.
I have never had a sound sleep since it happened. I start
up thinking I see these dreadful faces and the gleam of
their sabres," said Lady Vane, an ' her hand trembled as
it rested on the golden head of the child standing by her
knee. He was a fair, fragile-looking creature, lovely as an
angel, but with a wise grave expression far beyond his
years. He aj)peared to be drinking in every word.

"Did they kill Uncle Geoff?" he asked, with wide
open eyes.

"Yes, my darling."

"What with — was he shotted at or cutted?" he asked
with the most intense interest.

" I can't say, Willie, I was not there," she answered, and
then looked up at the beautiful mother, whose still face
betrayed neither poignant grief nor consuming anxiety.

" It will be a terrible blow to William, although he has
been expecting it. He has repeatedly said Geoffrey would
lose his life this time," Lady Emily said, slowly, and there
was a minute's silence.

"What kind of a heart have you, Emily Portmayne,"
burst at length, almost passionately, from Lady Vane's lips,
"that you don't even ask whether poor Mrs Geoffrey is
dead or alive ? "

Lady Emily's colour rose, and her lips compressed
slightly.

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The Ayres of Studlci^h.

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"It is natural I should be more concerned for my
hrothcr-in-law and my husband," she answered, with a
distinct touch of hau^'htiness. "Has Mrs CieolTrey re-
turned to ICngland with you?"

"No, poor darling, she only reached Calcutta. We left
her in the hospital, where her second child was born."

" I'oor thing ! "

Somehow these two words, though they were uttered
with apparent symj)athv, irritated the impulsive Lady Vane.

" Emily, why will you be so unjust, so abominable to that
sweet woman? Hush, I will speak to you! I have known
you all your life, and it is my duty to speak ! Poor
(leoffrey's wife is a woman whom all classes of society in
Delhi loved to honour. She is fit to grace any station. I
for one am not ashamed to say that she has taught me a
great deal."

"She can dispense with my j)oor commendations then,"
said Lady ICmily, languidly. " ]''orgive me. Lady Vane, but
I cannot go into raptures over — my sister-in-law, although I
bear her no ill-will."

"She is coming back to her father with her children as
soon as she is able. Promise me that you will not make
her cross any heavier," said Lady Vane, passionately, as she
looked into the fair, calm, almost expressionless face.

" I must go to Mr Ayre and pay my respects to Sir
Randal," said Lady Emily, and opening the long window
she stepped out upon the terrace. Then Lady Vane
clasped the still wondering boy in her arms, and said —

" Poor darling, what a mother I "

CHAI'TER XII.

HOME TO KN(;KAND.

[HERE were signs of great excitement and prepara-
(^W^ lion in the old home on the edge of the pine-
(^jylpC wood, towards the close of a fine October day.
The sun was down, and the long shadows of the
twilight already darkening the little lawn, hut within the
house there was warmth and light and good cheer of the
most tempting kind. In the dining-room a great fire blazed
up the wide chimney, shedding its ruddy glow over the
supper table, which was groaning with its weight of good
things. There had been no such table set in Pine Edge
since the daughter of the house went away. Up and down
the hall, with hands nervously clasped behind his back,
paced the old man, with a red spot of excitement burning
in his cheeks, and a curious air of expectancy in look and
manner. When the old eight-day clock on the L,tairs chimed
the half-hour after six, Mattie, the housemaid, came out of
the kitchen with the silver urn in her hand.

" Please, sir, would you just take a look at the table.
The carriage has turned the bend in the copse road."

In a moment the old man was in the dining-room, with
his eye fixed on the well-laden table.

" There's enough for 'em to eat, my lass, if sick hear

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T/ie Ayres of Studleigh.

can eat," he said abruptly. " But there's something awarit-
ing. It's the flowers ! Why, what have we all been think-
ing on ? Get out the old bowls your mistress prized so,
cind I'll cut roses to fill 'em. The bend of the copse-road ;
we've five minutes to get it done. Make haste, Mattie. 1
want the place to look home-like for Miss Rachel to-night
of all nights. V'e mustn't forget anything. She set such
store always by the flowers, more than by the victuals, I
iised to say."

Before the heavy wheels of the old family coach grated
on the gravel the finishing touch of the roses had been
given to the table, and the farmer was standmg in the door-
way shaking in every limb when the expectant travellers
arrived. He took a step forward, but his hand, weak with
his strong agitation, was powerless to turn the handle of
the carriage door.

" Here I am, father," said Rachel's voice, quite steady
and cheerful, and she stepped out at the other side, and
with a swift step went to him and laid her arms about his
neck. Then, heedless of the other occupants of the
carriage, Christopher Abbot drew his daughter into the
litde office opening off the hall and shut the door.

"My darling, my dear, my own poor child, welcome
home."

Rachel rested her two hands on his shoulders and looked
into his face with an inexpressible pathos of ter derness.

" Dear, dear father, thank God that I and my bairnies
have such a home to come to."

Then she kissed him again, still with that beautiful slight
smile on her lips, and never a tear, and bade him come
away and take his grandchildren in his arms. Christopher
Abbot was sjre amazed to see his daughter so calm and
self-possessed, with a certain beautiful stateliness about her,
too, which was new to him. Her face was that of a woman
who had endured great tribulation, but it was not the face
of a woman whose heart was crushed with a hopeless

Home to England.

103

despair, and for that Christopher Abbot thanked God ; he
had greatly feared for his child, and had prayed that she
might be restored to him something like the Rachel of old.

"Clement, you little rogue," he heard her sweet ringing
voice say. " Grandpapa, here is a young man who has to
be taught the meaning of fear. Don't you see him trying
to lift old Dobbin's fore-foot? Come here and salute grand-
papa, sir."

A shrill, sweet laugh, which strangely stirred the old man's
heart, rang out in the still dusky air, and the little boy
marched forward and gravely gave the military salute.

"Is this grandpa? Why, ma, his hair is white."

"Take him up, father. I shall feel that it is really home
when I see him in your arms," the young mother said with
a smile and a tear. The old man needed no second bidding,
and in another moment had his grandson on his shoulder.

' Whefe'd the other one, the little lass ? " he asked, with
a tremor in his voice.

"Here."

The nurse-girl stepped from the carriage, and Rachel
took the sleeping mite from her arms, and held her up to
her father's face.

"Kiss her too, daddy. You'll need to be father and
grandfather too to little Evelyn. She is called for Geoffrey's
mother. I thought he would have liked it."

Christopher Abbot nodded, and then the servants came
shyly out to the door, eager for a word from the dear young
mistress they had all loved, and who had rome back to
them under such sad circumstances. Rachel spoke to them
all, and then presented her son, whose bold, soldierly
bearing was a perpetual delight to his grandfiither, after the
agitation of the meeting was over. It was all so much
easier and better than he had dared to hope for. Instead of
the fretful, broken-hearted woman he had compassionately
expected, there was only a grave, dignified, beautiful mother,
who appeared to think her children worth living for. Again

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T/te Ayres of Studleigh.

and again Christopher Abbot, in his inmost heart, thanked
God that grace and strength had been given to Rachel so
to bear her cross. At the table once little Clement suddenly
looked round piteously, as if a sense of loss visited him
anew, and said, with quivering lip —

" Oh, ma, will daddy come soon ? "

Then Rachel trembled all over, and her very lips
whitened. But she stretched out her fair hand, and lay-
ing it on the sunny head, gently quieted the boy with that
very touch.

" It is so hard, father, when Clement misses his father like
that," she said, with a quivering smile, which sent the un-
accustomed tears into the old man's eyes.

Rachel was greatly touched when she went upstairs to
[)ut the children to bed to find that her own old nursery
had been aired and brightened up with many little thought-
ful touches in anticipation of its new occupants. She sat
by her little boy till he fell asleep, tired out with his great
(luestionings about the chickens and the calves and the
ponies he would see on the morrow. Then she went down-
stairs, nerving herself for what she had to do. She had
decided that it was her duty to tell her father all the fearful
story of their escape, and then let it be buried for ever.

She found him sitting in his own big chair by the dining-
100m hearth waiting for her.

"It is som.ethmg like the old times, father," she saiu,
gently, " But to-morrow these lively babies will convince
us that the old times will never come any more."

She smoothed the white hair back from the rugged brow
as sh J passed by his chair, and said, with her tender smile —

*' Poor old father, it has been very hard for you, too, and
now to have your evening rest broken in upon by two babies ;
but we had no hesitation about coming home at all.''

"Why should you, my lamb? Where would my little
girl come to in her sorrow except to her old father ? "

" Nowhere else in uiC world, su.ely," Rachel answeicd.

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Home to En- land.

105

and taking her own old chair on the opposite side of the
hearth, sat for a time in silence.

" There is the story to tell, father, before we begin our
life," she said at length; "and I will begin at the very
beginning. Did you think there was anything in my letters
through the winter to make you anxious ? I always tried to
write cheerfully, but we were all living in such uncertainty
and dread that perhaps I did not succeed very well."

"I knew there was something. The Squire and I used
to compare notes, but I think the Captain spoke out quite
frankly to his brother about the state of affairs."

" He did. He told him everything. Two brothers were
never more to each other than Geoffrey and the Squire. I
will go up to Studleigh in the morning, father, to see him,
for 1 know he is not able to come and see me."

" I hope, Rachel, you may not be too late. He was very
low this morning, and I know they are only waiting on the
end."

Rachel sighed.

" How hard life is, daddy. It has seemed so very hard of
late," she said, a trifle wearily. "There is so much to bear
when one grows up. But I must tell my story. We were
very anxious all winter in Delhi, because there was a great
deal to make us anxious. The British officers could not
understand some things they noticed among the Sepoys, but
it was not till early spring that they began to be openly arro-
gant, and even disobedient. Sometimes they were not
punished as severely as they ought to have been for insub-
ordination, just because our officers wanted to be gentle and
kind. You see the Sepoys imagined they had grievances.
We only realised after the outbreak how complete was the
disaffection, and how perfectly organised the whole plan of
revolt. It is perfectly marvellous the secret cunning of the
Mohammedans."

" What Sir Randal Vane seems to be most indignant at is
the dearth of British soldiers in India."

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The Ayres of Sttidleigh.

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Yes, there are too few. Representations were sent again
and again during the last year, but they were unheeded.
We tried to excuse them, their resources being so taxed at
the Crimea. Oh, daddy, it is a fearful thing to be a soldier's
wife."

" Ay, my poor girl, you have had your troubles since that
day you stood a bride in Studleigh Church. But I don't
think you regret it."

" Regret it ? Oh, no ! I would go through it again. I
want to tell you again, daddy, that never had any woman a
husband like mine. If I were to speak for hours I could
never tell you what he was. I thank God that I have such
a blessed memory of my children's father — a memory I can
teach them to revere and love."

" It is a matter for thankfulness, Rachel, to you, as it is to
me, that you are able to take your sorrow in such a light."

" There is no other light I could take it in and live, father,"
Rachel answered, with a shiver. "It will not take long to
tell, and I will hurry on. When matters got very strained in
the city, Geoffrey began to be very anxious, I could see,
about me. I was not well. Of course the fearful uncer-
tainty we lived in unnerved me. He was very anxious that
I should leave Delhi with the Eltons, who were going home.
I could not leave him, but I made arrangements for them to
take Clement with them. The native nurse, of whom I told
you, was to go with them. That was on the Sunday even-
ing. On Monday morning the Eltons' carriage was to leave,
but on Monday we were thankful to escape in it to the Flag-
staff Tower, and poor Major Elton was killed as he rode
beside us."

" Was the Captain with you then ? "

" Oh, no, Geoffrey was where duty called him, defending
the city gates against the mutineers. It was there he fell —
and later in the day, Azim, my faithful servant, brought me
his medals and a lock of his hair. He had prowled about
among the fighting all day long to find his master. The

Home to Etwland,

107

fidelity of that poor Hindoo, father, redeems, in my eyes,
the whole nation from its vileness. Later on he laid down
his life for us, and there is no greater love than that."

Slowly and with some difficulty Rachel told the whole
story of their perilous adventures and ultimate escape, the
old man listening with strained ears and breathless interest,
scarcely able to realise that it was his own child who had
passed through such strange and fearful experiences.

" I have told you everything, daddy, because I never want
to speak of it again. Some day I shall have to tell Clement
how his father died, but till then I think it will be better for
us to be silent about it," said Rachel, and he saw how very
pale her face was, and how the pain lines were deep about
her sweet mouth.

" Very well, my darling, in God's good time memory will
not be so painful," he said, soothingly.

" But I don't want to forget," Rachel answered, almost
sharply. "My dearest is so inseparably bound up with
every one of these fearful memories that I must keep them
in my heart to the — very end. They will become familiar
by and by, and not so bitter. But, father, I can't answer
questions about it. When the neighbours come, as I know
they will, will you tell them not to ask ? I — I — could not
bear it."

" I will, ril shut their mouths, if I have to shut the
door on 'em," said the old man, with a fierceness which
made Rachel smile.

" While we are talking, father, we may as well arrange
how we are to be situated. I am not quite penniless," she
said, pathetically. "There is Geoffrey's pension and his
portion from the estate. It is not much, but it will educate
his children, and I am not afraid to leave myself with
you."

" I should think not. If you say another word I'll be
angry with you, upon my word I will. Isn't Pine Edge and
all that's in it yours, and if not yours, whose is it ? " demanded

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108

T/ie Ayres of S:iidhigh.

the old man, peremptorily. " Don't say another word about
that, or we'll maybe quarrel over it."

" No, father, we won't do that," Rachel answered, readily.
" And I'll just slip into the old way and try to make you
happy, and if you see me some days very quiet you won't
mind me. There will be times, I know, when even your
great love and the sight of the bairnies will hardly make up."

" I know, I know ; you may trust your old father, Rachel.
And what about Studleigh ? After the Squire slips away, I
suppose there won't be many comings and goings then."

"No," said Rachel, quite quietly, but with a slight
pressure of the lips. " You are right. Lady Emily will not
be more anxious to repudiate me than I shall be to keep
myself and my children away from her."

There was no bitterness in Rachel's quiet voice, but her
father saw that she was touched to the quick. It was not
her pride alone ; her sensitiveness had not recovered from
the pointed aversion and ignoring to which she had been
subjected at the time of her marriage.

Christopher Abbot shook his head, for his heart was
troubled. Looking into the future he saw vexation and
sorrow and bitter estrangement growing wider and wider
between Studleigh and Pine Edge.

CHAPTER XIII.

A LAST INTERVIEW AT STUDLEIGH.

ACHEL slept soundly that night in the wide, old-
fashioned room she had occupied in her girlish
days. The nursery adjoined, and there little
"" Clement slept in his cot close by his nurse's bed.
These arrangements had been considered and provided for
by the old man M-nself, as solicitous as woman for his
dear daughter's comfort. It was a joy of no ordinary kind,
though slightly tinged with sadness, to Christopher Abbot
thus to welcome Rachel home. He could not sleep, and
once in the grey dawn he crept along the corridor to the
door of the room which held his treasure. He listened
there, expecting to hear the sound of sobbing, but when
there was no sound he looked through the half-open door,
and saw Rachel asleep, with the child's dark head on her
breast. Her face looked young and lovely in its peaceful
repose, and Christopher Abbot crept back to his own bed,
relieved and thankful, and slept till the sun awoke aim. It
was his custom to see that the men were set about their
work, before he took his own breakfast, and when he came
sauntering up the garden path a few minutes before eight a
shrill laugh greeted him, and a white figure, with golden
locks flying in the morning wind, came running to meet him,
eagerly shouting, " Grandpa ! "

i ' '

The Ay res of Stndlcigh,

That sweet, eager voice sent a strange thrill to the old
man's heart, and when presently, remembering his manners,
the little fellow stood still in the path before him, and made
the grave military salute, grandpa's delight knew no l)oun{is.

" Where are the cows and the hens and the little chicks? "
he asked, slipping his hand with the utmost confidence into
the old man's. " Take me to them."

"Not yet. General, we must go and see mamma, and
have our breakfast first," said the old man, and from that
day little Clement was " General " and nothing more to his
grandfather.

In the dining-room Rachel was making the tea — a slim
figure in a white gown with bands of black ribbon, a lovely
and graceful woman whose very presence beautified and
brightened the house.

"Good morning, father. The rogue has found you, I
see. Yes, thank you ; I rested well. I have had no such
sleep, I think, since I went away from Pine Edge. I
missed the mosquitoes," she said, with her pleasant smile.
" Ask Clement about the mosquitoes, and he'll give you a
graphic account of their depredations."

"Oh, ma, there's a carriage," cried Clement, who was
standing in the sunshine by the wide-open window. " It's a
white horse. Oh, ma, will it be dada ? "

" It's from Studleigh, Rachel ; it will be a message
from the Squire. I'll see," said the farmer, and stepped
hurriedly over the low window ledge.

" Morning, sir," said the man on the box, touching his
hat. " The Squire's compliments, and if Mrs Ayre is not too
tired, would she come over to Studleigh, and bring the
little boy?"

" She'll do that, Simmons, if you can wait a few minutes
How is the Squire this morning ? "

"Had a bad night," Rosanna said, "and her ladyship's
been up since four o'clock," said the man, with a graver
look. " Excuse me, sir, but is that the Captain's son ? "

A Last Interview at Studiei^i^h.

II I

*' \ es ; isn't he a fine little fellow ? " asked the farmer,
delightedly.

"He's a splendid little chap — like his mother, Mr
Abbot, if you'll excuse me say in' it, but he's got the
Captain's hair. I hope Mrs Ayre is well."

"Quite well. She will be ready in a few minutes,
Simmons ; just wait. Come, General, and get ready to
escort your mother."

It was natural that Rachel should feel a little nervous
and excited over her lipproaching visit. She only drank a
cup of tea, shaking her head when urged by her father to
cat something more substantial. She did not wait to
change her dress, but throwing a dark cloak about her,
put on her widow's bonnet, and stepped out to the carriage.
She had a kind word of greeting for Simmons, who had
served as stable-boy at Pine Edge before he entered the
S(iuire's service, and had many kindly memories of his old
employers.

So, in the sweet and sunny morning, Rachel was driven
along the green lanes to the great gates of Studleigh. She
talked to the boy as they drove to keep down her own
agitation, telling him to be very quiet and gentle with his
poor uncle, who was so sick and weary, and whom dada
had loved so dearly. She tried, but could find nothing
to say to him about his aunt ; nor did she m<^ntion the
litde cousin, not feeling sure whether Lady Emily would
permit any such relationship.

The child's eyes opened wide in wonderment when the
carriage stopped at the wide doorway of the grand old
house, and Rachel could see that he was awed into silence.
The great house was very still, and a strange feeling of
loneliness came upon Rachel as she stood a moment
within the hall, hesitatingly waiting for some one to tell
her what to do. She half expected that Lady Emily her-
self, softened by sorrow, might come to bid her welcome,
t)ut, presently, it being the servants' breakfast hour,

112

The Ay res of Studlcifj^h.

tr i

Rosanna, her ladyship's maid, who had seen tlie carriage
arrive, came running downstairs.

"Good morning, Mrs Ayre," she said, pleas' iy, yet
with a touch of familiarity which Rachel was }• .ps too
quick to resent ; then she took little Clement in ner arms,
but he, resenting the liberty also, struggled down, and
holding fast by his mother's skirts, looked defiantly at the
maid's pretty face.

" Be good enough to tell Mr Ayre I have come,"
Rachel said, quickly, but her colour rose a little, for she
felt her position keenly, and knew that she owed it
entirely to Lady Emily.

"Just come upstairs, please," Rosanna answered, a iritlc
more deferentially. "The Squire is expecting you."

Rachel stepped back to the table, laid down her cloak,
and taking her boy by the hand followed the girl upstairs.
In his dressing-room the Squire received his brother's wife
alone, and Rachel took Lady Emily's absence as an indica-
tion that she still declined to receive her as a member of
the family. The sick man was lying on his couch, very
thin and worn and wasted, but with a deep peace on his
fine face, a look which Rachel had seen before on the
faces of those who had given up the things of time. His
smile was very sweet as he extended both his hands, saying,
tenderly, " It is good of you to come, my poor sister."

The voice was so like Geoffrey's that it broke Rachel's
composure down. With a quick sob she advanced and
knelt down by William Ayre's side, the child looking on in
a great wonderment, his big grey eyes wide to the rims.

It was a few minutes before Rachel recovered herself,
then she drew back with a quivering smile.

" Forgive me, it was Geoffrey's voice. I could not help
it. I am not very strong yet, I fear. Come, Clement, and
salute your uncle, papa's dear brother he taught you to
pray for every night."

WiUiam Ayre's eyes filled, as the child, obedient to his

A Last Inten>iciv at Stiuiieigh,

113

mother, came forward with his large bright eyes fixed full
on his uncle's fare.

" So this is (ieoff's boy, a beautiful child, who will be a
comfort and a joy to his mother. Rachel, I have thanked
(lod many times that (ieofTrey had the wife he loved with
him in India. Vou do not regret it either, I think, in spite
of your many sorrows."

" I regret it ! I would not give my memories, William,
for other women's best possessions," Rachel answered
proudly ; and the Squire loved to see that touch of pride,

*' I wasn't mistaken in you. I sent for you, Rachel,
because I had many things to say to you, and some things
to give to you, among them (ieoffrey's letters to me from
Delhi. They will be precious to you. 'I'liere are some
sentences in them which will comfort you all your life. He
adored you, Rachel ; it is not given to many women to call
forth such reverent and perfect love, nor to deserve it."

Rachel's face flushed, but her eye shone. Her heart
was hungry for such crumbs of comfort in her desolation.
It was sweet to be assured, so undeniably, that she had
been so much to her soldier-husband.

" But tell me about the little girl," the Squire said,
presently, with a smile.

"Oh, there is nothing to tell. She is just a white-faced
baby who sJeeps and eats," Rachel answered. "I have
called her Evelyn."

"I thank you, and I pray that she may grow up like her
whose name she bears. I can wish for you or her nothing
better here, Rachel. You, who remember my mother,
know that."

" I thought Geoffrey would like it," Rachel answered,
"especially as this is Clement Abbot. Perhaps I was a
little selfish in that."

"Not at all. He is a fine little fellow. Perhaps, who
knows, some day he will be Squire of Studleigh," said the
Squire, with a sigh. " My son, I fear, has a poor heritage of

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The Ayres of Studlci*;h,

health from his father. I believe I was wrong to marry.
There is another thing I wish to say, Rachel, concerning,'
your boy, and you must not say a word in demur. I have
bequeathed Stonccroft to him absolutely. It will remain in
trust for him until he is of age. Hush, not a word. I will
not listen. It was my duty, ai)art from my privilege. No,
I will not listen ! It is done, and is quite unalterable."

Rachel rose to her feet.

"Your wife, Mr Ayre," she said with difficulty. "She
will have the right to feel aggrieved. Pardon me for saying
candidly that I should prefer that she had no caus** for
added bitterness against me."

He gathered from her manner more than from her words
that she very deeply felt what she was saying, and a look of
pain came upon his face. It is no exaggeration to say that
his wife's continued and studied ignoring of Geoffrey's wife
was a trial to the S' .lire, which weakened both body and
mind.

"She knows of it, Rachel. Perhaps — who knows, the
hands of the children may disperse this strange and need-
less bitterness. I pray God it may be so, on my dying
bed."

The sound of a quick, short step on the corridor fell on
their ears, then the door was hastily opened, and the little
heir ran in, laughing, up to his father's side, and clambered
on his couch.

" Willie, this is your cousin Clement, Uncle Geoff's
little boy," said the Squire, with a grave, kind smile.
" Kiss him and say you are glad to see him, and promise
me that you will always love him and be kind to him."

But the heir de: lined to bind himself, and the two
regarded each other with that unblushing and delicious
candour characteristic of their years. Even at that moment
the contrast between them was very marked. Although
the little heir was two years older than his cousin, he was
scarcely taller, ^nd his figure was very slender \ his face too

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A Last httenntiv at Studleigh.

pure and delicate for health. Little ClemeiU was a great,
strong hardy fellow, on whose sound constitution the trying
climate of the East had evidently had little effect.

"Suppose you take your little cousin down to mamma,
Willie," said the Squire, presently, but Rachel intervened.

" If it is pride, forgive me," she said, quickly. " But it
will be better, perhaps, that we should not intrude upon
l.ady Emily. If she has a desire to see Captain Ayre's son,
Tine Edge is not very far away."

Once more a quick, impatient sigh escaped the Squire's
lips.

" I regret to hear you speak thus, Rachel, and yet I can-
not blame you. Promise me that you will at least meet my
wife half way, when she seeks to be friendly with you," he
said, eagerly. " Do not be too hard upon her, Rachel.
You know — or perhaps you do not know — how she has been
reared, hedged about from infancy by pride and exclusive-
ness which had no limit. Promise me that you will not
bear malice for the sake of our beloved one whom I shall see
so soon."

Rachel's lips quivered.

" I promise that I will do what I can to conciliate Lady
Emily, for Geoffrey's sake and for your sake, who have been
so generous and brotherly in your treatment of me," she
said, impulsively. " One of the first lessons I shall teach
my children will be reverence for their Uncle William."

"Teach them to have a kindly memory of one who, with
all his faults, tried honestly to do his duty," the Squire
answered, with a faint, sad smile.

As he looked at the graceful woman in white, with all the
pride softened away from her beautiful face, a sudden
impulse moved him to send for his own wife, and, for the
sake of the children, ask them to be friends. But he felt
himself too weak to risk the scene, and Rachel, though not
divining his thought, saw that his slight strength was spent,
and made a movement to go.

-oi^mmmmmummmm.

The Ay res of SUidteigh.

" We have vearied you, I fear," she said, quickly. " We
shall go no'.v, and come again when you are stronger."

" That will not be here. It is only a matter of hours," he
said quietly. " Do not hurry away. I have not asked any
questions about these awful days in India. We got all
particulars from the Vanes. You know how kind they were
in coming straight to relieve our anxiety."

" Yes, my father told me. There is no truer friend on
earth than Lady Vane, Mr Ay re."

" She thinks just so of you. You have made a conquest
of them both. Well, what are you going to make of this
little man — a soldier, eh ? "

Rachel sm.iled.

"There was a time when I thought, with passionate
satisfaction, of a day to come when Clement's sword should
avenge his father's death ; but that has passed. My slight
sorrow has paled into nothingness beside the agonies of
Cawnpore. I hope my son will grow up a good man, such
a man as his Uncle William."

"Say his father rather; he was a brave, honest soldier,
who feared nothing in the world but wrong," answered the
Squire. " Must you go ? Will you kiss your poor uncle
before you go, Clement Abbot Ayre ? It is a grand-sound-
ing name, young man ; see that you make it an honoured
one before you die."

O'he child, not understanding what was being said, kissed
his uncle quickly, and pulling his mother's skirts, bade her
come away. Rachel stooped down and kissed the Squire
too. He held her hands a moment in his nerveless grasp,
and then let her go. No other word was spoken by either.

Before she left the room she took the little heir in her
arms, and he put his hands confidingly about her neck, and
said he loved her. There was something in that gravely-
beautiful face which could win every heart but that of the
Lady Emily.

As the mother and child went down the great staircase

A Last Interview at Stiidleigh.

117

they met her on the landing. Rachel's face flushed deep
crimson, and hurriedly returning the distant inclination of
the head, which was her sister-in-law's only greeting, drew
down her veil, and made haste from the house.

Lady Emily went straight to her husband's room. He
looked round, eagerly.

" Did you come up the front stair ? Did you meet poor
Rachel and her boy ? "

" I did."

" Did you speak to her ? Emily, you did not allow her,
after what she has suffered, to pass unnoticed out of the
house ? "

Lady Emily never spoke, but took her own son on her
knee, and began to talk fondly to him. Then the master of
Studleigh turned his face to the wall, and the shadow
deepened on his face. That unanswered question was
the last he asked of his wife, for before sundown that day
another Squire of Studleigh entered into his rest.

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CHAPTER XIV.

A SURPRISE FOR MR GILLOT.

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m'd

OSANNA, where is Mr Will?"

"I think, my lady, he has gone to Pine
Edge, at least I saw him cross the park just
after lunch."

" Can you tell me how many times in a day Mr Will
crosses the park to Pine Edge, Rosanna?" asked Lady
Emily, hotly, losing for a moment, before a servant, her
habitual self-control.

" He goes every day, my lady, I know, because Phoebe,
that's Mrs Ayre's housemaid, told me," returned Rosanna,
with a curious little smile, which at once recalled her mistress
to a sense of her own imprudence in stooping to discuss her
son's comings and goings with a dependant.

" Well, I suppose he has a right to visit his cousins if he
likes any day, Rosanna. See that you do not gossip with
the servants at Pine Edge about what concerns neither you
nor them. If I hear of it again, I must dispense with your
services, though you have been with me so long."

It was a sharp reproof, and quite uncalled for, seeing that
Lady Emily had questioned of her own accord.

Rosanna bit her lip, and her angry colour rose. Of late
the servants at Studleighhad found their imperious mistress

'4 ill

A Surprise for Mr Gillot.

tl9

very hard and unreasonable to deal with, and it is not too
much to say that only love for the young Squire, as Will
Ayre was already called, though only a boy in his teens,
made their service at all tolerable. Lady Emily made a
stern regent. Many, many a lingering and passionate regret
the people who had loved William Ayre now gave to his
revered memory. It was half-past three on an Aoril after-
noon — a soft, grey afternoon, when the spring's radiant face
was veiled in a tender pensiveness, more lovely, perhaps,
than her gayer moods. Never had the smooth lawns and
parks ^ orn a more vivid green ; never had there been a
greater wealth of bud and bloom on wood and meadow.
It was, indeed, a lovely spring. Lady Emily stood at the
open hall door and looked out upon the beautiful prospect
before her with eyes which had not much interest or
pleasure in their depths. She was thinking of something
else, a something which brought out all that was hardest and
least winning in her face. The years had dealt very gently
with Lady Emily Eyre. There was not a line on her smooth
brow, nor about the proud, cold mouth ; the delicate bloom
had not faded, nor the keen, lovely eye lost anything of its
brightness. She looked very young to have a tall son in
his fifteenth year. She was still the acknowledged beauty
of the county. Young debutantes had come and gone, but
none had borne away the palm from that queenly woman.
But she lacked that gracious, tender womanliness which is
infinitely more priceless than beauty of form or face. All
admired, many respected, but few, very few, loved the
widowed lady of Studleigh Manor.

She stood in silent reverie for some time, and then passing
into the hall rang the bell which stood on the table.

" Tell Simmons to bring the phaeton and be ready to
drive me to Ayreleigh in fifteen mmutes," was the order
given.

Then Rosanna ran to attend upon her mistress, and
dressed her for the drive. She took the reins herself, and

120

The Ayres of Studleigh.

Simmons, very stolid and precise, sat with folded arms
behind. The distance to Ayreleigh was four miles, which
included the long approach to the Manor.

Ayreleigh was the county town, a quaint, sleepy hollow,
with a wide, square market-place, from which all the streets
emerged. Her ladyship's cream ponies were well known in
Ayreleigh, which she often visited, with her son riding by
her carriage when he was at home from Eton. The ponies
clattered over the causeway that still afternoon, and seemed
to awaken countless echoes through the sleepy old town.
The clerks in th»e office of Mr Gillot, the attorney, heard
and recognised the din, and guessed that she was coming to
see their governor. Of late her ladyship's visits to Mr
Gillot's office had been very frequent. He was ready him-
self at the door to receive her — a tall, stately-looking old
man, with a face of exceptional shrewdness, and a fine
courtly manner, which had stood him in good stead during
his professional life. But though he was so suave and
smooth spoken, yet in matters of conscience, and even of
opinion, Abel Gillot could be immovable as a rock. The
family secrets and the family affairs of the Manor had been
in the keeping of the Gillots for generations, and the
present Mr Gillot had been absolutely trusted by the late
Squire. It is well to say at once that Mr Gillot did not like
the Lady Emily, and never hailed her visits to his office
with pleasure. i)Ut there was nothing of this inner thought
betrayed in his courteous and polished manner as he
received and ushered her into his private room.

" Can you give me half an hour undisturbed, Mr
Gillot ? " she asked, when they were alone in the room.
"I wish to speak about a matter of considerable im-
portance."

"I am entirely a' your ladyship's service," he replied,
courteously, " I am not busy, in fact. I was just meditat-
ing taking my wife for a drive, when I heard the familiar
roll of your carriage wheels."

A Surprise /or Mr Gillot.

121

" I shall not keep you very long from Mrs Gillot," I^dy
Emily answered, with a slight smile, " I wish to ask when
the lease of Pine Edge expires."

The attorney gave a slight start, and looked at her
keenly.

"We have never been accustomed to think of expiry
or renewal of lease in connection with Pipe Edge," he
answered at once. " But I believe, correctly speaking, the
late Mr Abbot's lease should expire next Lady Day."

Lady Emily put back her veil, and turned her clear eye
full on the lawyer's face.

" I have decided not to renew it, Mr Gillot."

For once in his hfe the lawyer was unable to control his
feelings, and he uttered a hasty exclamation.

" Not renew it ! Surely your ladyship is speaking at
random. You cannot be in earnest."

" I am not accustomed, I think, to speak at random,"
she answered, with haughtiness. '* I have given this matter
my grave consideration, and have come to a decision which
is unalterable."

The attorney took a turn across the office floor before he
again spoke.

" This is, indeed, a matter of grave and painful import-
ance," he said, at length. " May I ask what are your lady-
ship's reasons for this unexpected decision."

"I do not know that I am called upon at all to give
reasons," she answered, quickly. " But you must agree
with me that since Mr Abbot died there has been no one
to look after the place, and that one of the most valuable
portions of the estate is being neglected, to my son's serious
loss."

The lawyer could have laughed outright, but his face
maintained its grave and serious look. He knew, ay too
well, that a deeper reason underlay the flimsy and common-
place expression of her anxiety regarding the neglect of the
estate.

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122

The Ayres of Studleigh.

" I think your ladyship is needlessly concerned. Bar-
nard was telling me only yesterday that Pine Edge had
never looked so well, and that young Mr Clement will soon
be ready to take all responsibility. I cannot believe that
your ladyship is in earnest."

" I am in earnest. I was never more so," she retorted,
with unusual passion. " I repeat that I do not intend to
renew the lease of Pine Edge to the present tenants."

" Does Mr William concur in this decision ? " asked the
lawyer, keenly.

"My son knows nothing about it. Why should he?
He is only a schoolboy, utterly ignorant of such things. It
is in his interest I am acting. You forget, Mr Gillot, that
Mr Ayre left me absolute control of affairs until my son
should attain his majority."

" I have not forgotten, my lady," returned the attorney,
gravely, but did not add, as he felt tempted to do, that the
Squire's disposition of affairs had caused him a great deal
of needless work and worry. There was a slight pause.
Mr Gillot felt embarrassed, and waited for his client to
proceed. He knew that the relations between Pine Edge
and Studleigh were most strained, but he could not pre-
sume to allude to them. He waited theretore for Lady
Emily to give him further instructions.

" You can communicate my wishes to Barnard, and
he can make the necessary arrangements," she said at
length.

" Am I to understand then that notice to quit is to be
conveyed in the usual way to Mrs Geoffrey Ayre?" he
asked, pointedly.

" You can lay before her my views on the subject. Tell
her the place is suffering through lack of proper super-
vision."

" Pardon, my lady, but to say so would be to shirk the
real issue. Pine Edge was never better cared for," inter-
rupted the attorney, candidly. " Mrs Ayre's own bailiff is

A Surprise for Mr Gil lot.

123

a man of exceptional ability and trustworthiness. I regret
to disappoint your ladyship, but it is impossible I can obey
you in this — quite impossible."

Lady Emily bit her lip. Her temper of late years had
lost much of its placidity. She was less able to brook
contradiction. But her strong common sense warned her
that nothing would be gained by an open rupture with Mr
Gillot. He had enjoyed her husband's implicit confidence,
and she could not, even if she wished, dispense with his
service and advice. She was bound by the terms of the
Squire's will to retain him as the family solicitor until her
son came of age.

"Well, then, there need be no reason given," she said,
calmly. " Simply say that I desire to let Pine Edge to a
new tenant."

Mr Gillot took another turn across the floor. He was
very angry — burning with honest indignation against the
woman before him, but he betrayed no sign. It was
several moments, however, before he could choose the
words of his reply. He stood up at the desk before her,
and leaning his hand upon it, looked her full in the
face —

" Have you considered, Lady Emily, what this decision
may cost Mrs Ayre ? The place is inseparably associated
with her dearest memories. She has known no other
home ; and I know it was the best consolation to my old
friend, Mr Abbot, on his death-bed, that his daughter
would be able to bring up her children in Pine Edge. I
entreat you, my lady, do not let any slight prejudice or
whim induce you to act in haste, which I am certain you
would repent."

"Your sentiments do you credit, Mr Gillot, though they
are unusual in a man of business," she replied, with a slight
chilling smile. " Mrs Geoffrey Ayre has no cause to feel
aggrieved. What is to hinder her from taking up her
abode at Stonecrott, which is also going out of repair

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124

77/^ Ay res of Studleigh,

through lack of attention ? In fact, it is her duty to do so.
The boy himself will i)e quick to reflect upon her neglect of
his inheritance when he comes to it."

"If your ladyship's decision is unalterable, there is not
much use discussing the case in any of its bearings ; but
may I be allowed one suggestion ? "

"Certainly. I wish to do nothing rashly — though I
feel very strongly on this subject, Mr Gillot. I am quite
willing to listen to your opinion."

" My opinion is that Mrs Ayre's son ought to have the
choice of the tenancy of Pine Edge, and my advice to you
would be to leave things as they are until Mr William is
of age," returned the attorney, frankly.

" Mr Gillot, I have reasons for wishing my sister-in-law
further away from Studleigh," Lady Emily admitted then,
being driven to bay. " One of them is that my son is in
clined to spend too much of his time at the farm. It is
not desirable, as he is at a most impressionable age, and it
must be put a stop to."

Mr Gillot carefully restrained his surprise.

" Lady Emily, forgive the question," he said, impulsively ;
" but would the Squire not have approved Mr William's
intimacy with his cousins ? "

" I do not think so. Besides, that is outside of the
question altogether. It is what / approve, and I must
be considered," she replied, in her haughtiest manner.

Mr Gillot took the hint.

" Very well, my lady, your instructions shall be attended
to," he said, briefly. "I only stipulate that you will go
through the form of consulting Mr William. He is of
sufficient age to understand the matter when it is put
plainly before him."

Lady Emily rose. She had so far gained her point ; but
she was not at ease,

"Of course you understand that every consideration is
to be shown to Mrs Ayre. She is not to be hurried in any

til

A Surprise for Mr Gillot.

I2S

way. It is a long time till Lady Day — by that time she
will have grown accustomed to the idea. I believe she is
a sensible woman, and will in time, at least, admit the
wisdom of my decision. Her son is a hij^h-spirited, am-
bitious boy, I am told. It is not at all likely that he will
ever settle down to the narrow life which was enough for
his grandfather. The chances are that he will follow his
father's profession."

"I could not say. He is quite young yet ; but, as you
say, a fine, high-spirited, noble boy. Then, shall I com-
municate at once with Mrs Ay re ? "

" It will be better to lose no time," Lady Emily answered,
as she drew down her veil.

"I confess I do not like my task. I do not think your
ladyship has the least idea of the sacrifice you are asking
at Mrs Ayre's hands. You are aware, of course, how long
the Abbots have tenanted Pine Edsjfe ? "

"About three hundred years, the Squire told me, but as
there is not an Abbot left, the whole matter is changed,"
she answered, quickly. " It is not as if we were refusing
the place to an Abbot."

"Well, well, perhaps not. Good afternoon, my lady.
You are to have a shower going home, I see. Will you
not wait until it passes ? "

" No, thank you. Good afternoon. I shall be waiting
to hear from you," she replied, and passed out to her

carnage.

Mr Gillot stood at the office door and watched the
dainty equipage dash across the square and along the
narrow High Street until it was lost to sight. Then he
re-entered his own room and sat down through force of
habit at the hearth, and stretched out his hands towards
the grate, though the fire had long burned out. He was
very much absorbed. He had not heard anything for long
which had so upset him.

"The only chance lies with the young Squire," he

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126

T/ie Ayres of Stiidleigh.

muttered to himself. "And he's an Ayre, every inch of
him ; he's inherited nothing but his fair skin from his
mother's side, thank Heaven. Well, well, it'll be as good
as a play to watch this thing to the end, though I wish i
had nothing to do with it, that's all."

CHAPTER XV.

COUSINS.

J»T was a pretty picture. Mrs Geoffrey thouglit so as
she watched it from the dining-room window at the
farm. Right in the middle of the thick pines the
old swing, which Rachel herself had loved in her
l)al)y days, held two occupants — a tall, slim, fair-haired hoy,
with a refined, delicate face, and a honnie, red-cheeked,
plump little girl, with hair and eyes as dark as the sloe.
They were standing together on the wooden seat of the
swing, with arms intertwined, holding on as best they might
to the roi)e at either side. The colour was ruddy in the
lad's fair face, and Evelyn's dark locks tossed in the wind,
and she gave a shriek of delight when Clement, with a
stronger shove than usual, sent them up nearly to the top-
most hough.

"Another; Clem, it's lovely," cried Evelyn, in her sweet
shrill voice. " Isn't it splendid, Will ? "

"That's ten turns; two more, and we'll let the cat die,"
said Clem in his matter-of-fact way. " Don't you think the
pair of you are rather heavy on a fellow's arms ? "

"Yes, it's a shame, let's die now, Evy, and then we'll give
Clem one."

"Oh, no, thanks. I can send myself up to that high

128

The Ayics of Studlcii^h.

branch. It's rather slow fun any way ; and it must be
nearly tea time."

Mrs Geoffrey watched the happy group for a few monuMUs
with a curiously tender smile on her face. Hut it grew
graver again, and she presently went out of doors, and
sauntered across the lawn to the swing.

" Here's mother. Want a swing, mother? It's no end
jolly. I've been pushing these two great lazy things for
ever so long," cried Clem. " Isn't it near tea time?"

" Not for half-an-hour. I came to tell you. Will, that I
saw your mother driving up the copse road ; will she not he
looking for you soon?"

" Oh, I don't think so. Aunt Rachel. She never expects
me in the drawing-room to tea, and it's hours till dinner,"
returned the lad. " Mayn't I stay to tea here ? It's so
jolly."

" Clem and Evy think it is jolly to have you, I don't
doubt," returned his aunt, with a smile. " But "

" You don't mind, auntie," asked the lad, hastily.
"You're always so kind."

" I love you, Will," she answered, in a curious still voice,
and laid her hand a moment on his tall shoulder.

His grey eyes met that tender m^tiierly gaze with a
passionate light in them. It is not exaggeration to say
that the young Squire of Studleigh loved his aunt with a
most reverent devotion, and she was worthy of it. She
looked calm and gracious as she stood by his side in
her soft black gown, looking at him with that unspeakable
tenderness to which he was a stranger at home. The
Portmayne creed taught that any exhibition of passion or
emotion was undignified, and perfectly unnecessary in all
relations of life. It did not forbid affection, only required
that it should never be paraded, either in public or private.
The hungry heart of William Ayre's boy had gone out most
passionately towards his kindred at Pine Edge, whom his
mother despised. He was beginning vaguely to understand

fSI !i

Cousins.

129

some things. He knew that the visits to the farm, the
brij^litcst spots in liisown existence, did not give i)lcasure to
his mother, though she liad not as yet I'orhiddcn him. He
had never yet dared to ask why there was such a gulf fixed
between the manor and the farm, nor why neither aunt nor
cousins were never on any pretence invited to Studleigh.
He pondered lliese things constantly in his heart, and had
often been on the point of (luestioning his mother, l)ut she
iKver gave him the slightest encouragement to speak of his
relatives, and he knew by the hardening of her f:ice and the
prouder pressure of her lips, when they were mentioned,
that the subject was not pleasant to her. He pu/.zled himself
often and sorely over the matter. He could not understand
any human being bearing a grudge against the loving,
gracious woman who had been his Uncle (icoffrey's wife.
Uncle (ieoffrey was Will's hero, and Clem and he were united
in one common bond of adoration for his memory. Often
the two lads talked over that far-off exciting time which even
to this day thrills the hearts of those who read it. Rachel
herself told the boy, as soon as he was able to understand it,
the story of his brave fiUher's life and death. And the
bright youthful imagination had filled in the picture, and
there were times when his mother's heart somewhat failed
her, so ardent and unmistakable was the bent of the boy's
mind after the profession his father had so loved. He was a
noble boy. As he stood leaning against the gnarled old
trunk of a pine tree with his hands in his pockets, his face
flushed with his exertions, his eye glowing with the fire and
spirit of youth, tall, straight, and manly for his years, he
looked every inch a soldier's son. Beside him the heir of
Studleigh looked even more delicate and fragile than his
Wont. Rachel felt the contrast, and her heart went out to
hiin in a rush of motherly compassion and love. He was
liamfully like his father, and for that father's sake, if for no
other, the boy must ever be dear to Rachel Ayre.
" Of course you can stay, dear, if you like. You know

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130

The Ay res of Studletgh.

wc like to have you, l)ut we must not he selfish. Mamma
might be vexed with us for keeping you so much here,
especially as your holidays are near an end."

" Oh, I don't think mamma minds much. She says I
bore her talking so much about school. Oh, Aunt Rachel,
I wish you'd let Clem to Eton this term."

"That's right, Will!" exclaimed Clem, quickly. "It
just amounts to this, mother, if you had to be a boy at
that poky old Grammar School at Ayreleigh you'd know
the difference."

"But what would I do, Clem, without both Will and
you ? " asked Evelyn, with wide reproachful eyes.

" Oh, you'd sew, and knit, and learn to be a good girl till
we came back," responded Clem, with all the coolness of a
big brother. " And you'd have mother."

" That is the tea-bell, children ! " exclaimed Mrs Ayre.
" It is later than I thought. Come then, Willie, we can't
send you off now."

It was no marvel that the lonely boy loved the homely
cheer of his Aunt Rachel's table. Her children were
always with her, and she made it her endeavour that the
meal hours should be the brightest in the day. They
dined. early, and their four o'clock tea was the pleasantest
meal of the day. In their grandfather's time tea had been
a great institution. Often when he came in hungry from
the fields it had been supplemented by cold fowl, or
perhaps a dish of brook trouts, or something else as tasty.
Then there was always an abundance of home-made cakes
and bread, sweet yellow butter, and golden honey, which
the healthy young appetites caused to disappear in a
marvellously short time. But though there was no for-
mality or stiffness, Rachel was most particular about the
manners of the children, and had taught Clement to be
courteous and attentive to herself and his sister. Wild and
rollicking as he was in his play, Clement was a perfect
gentleman in his manners. Rachel Ayre's face had not

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Cousins.

131

mma
here,

ays I
icliel,

"It

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know

11 and

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;SS of a

aged much during the last ten years, l)ut her hair was quite
grey, though still lovely and abundant. Sometimes the
imaginative and sensitive lad from Studleigh looked at her
in wonder, thinking of the terrible sorrows which had given
to h^er in youth one of the first attributes of age. But the
grey hfair was not unbecoming : nay, it seemed to give a
sweeter and more gracious dignity to her face.

Never had Will seemed more reluctant to leave the farm.
He lingered about after tea was over, until the servants
began to come in from the fields. Then his aunt gently
reminded him that he must go.

" It is so dull at Studleigh, Aunt Rachel. I wish mamma
and I lived at a farm," said the lad, wistfully. " Do say you
will let Clem go back to Eton w^ith me."

*' I'll think about it, dear boy. It is a great comfort to
me that you and Clem are such friends. I hope this
young friendship will grow stronger as the years go on."

" Oh, I am sure it will. Clem is such a splendid fellow.
Why, he'd be a king at Eton. He's just the sort of chap to
be that. You've no idea of it, auntie, and Fd be so proud
of him."

" God bless you ! You have all your father's unselfish-
ness, Willie," returned his aunt, with eyes full of tears.

" I wish papa had lived. It would all have been so
different, auntie. Mamma is so quiet and sad ; she does
not like me to make a noise, or even to speak much. I
have been very good this recess, or I should have been
sent to Grandmamma Portmayne's, like I was at Christmas.
That was awful."

The boy's outspoken confidence touched Rachel as it
had never done before. She understood it all so well.
The young, bright, unselfish spirit they were trying to curb
and to shape to their narrow creed was beginning to chafe
at the restraint, and to long for all that makes early youth
the sweetest possession on earth. Out of her boundless
pity and love for him, she had lavished upon him more

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'32

The Ayres of Studleigh.

tokens of affection than she had given to her own children,
because she knew he needed tiiem more — not knowing that
in thus binding the boy's heart to herself she was com-
mitting a sin in the eyes of Lady Emily, for which she
would never be forgiven.

Clement and P^velyn walked, as they had so often done,
half across the park with their cousin. They knew, in a
vague kind of fashion, that the haughty lady of the manor
did not regard them with a friendly eye. Clem was pro-
foundly indifferent to her, but Evelyn watched her on Sun-
days with great awe as she swept round to the stately
manor pew, admiring her beauty — as all must who looked
upon it — but yet feel'ng in a dim, childish way that some-
thing marred it- a r^omething which made it an unspeak-
able comfort to look up into her own mother's serene face,
and slip her hand in hers under the desk. Children are
quick to discern, and their judgments are seldom at fault.

They talked so eagerly as they walked that they did not
notice how near they had come to the house, until the
deep, solemn boom of the gong warned them.

"That's the dressing bell! I'll need to hurry up," said
Will, quickly. "Good-night, dear, good-night, Evy. Satur-
day afternoon then at the Pool. I'll bring two rods, Clem,
and Evy can get yours."

He stooped down and kissed Evelyn, as he had often
done, then the brother and sister turned away.

From the window of her dressing-room, Lady Emily saw
that parting, and !)it her lip. Rosanna, who was attending
to her toilet, wondered what caused this angry flush to
overspread the cheek of her mistress, apparently without a
cause. The last two holiday times Will had been required
to dine at seven o'clock with his mother, and he found the
dressing and all the formality of that elaborate meal very
irksome. He never denuirred, however ; Lady Emily had
no fault to find with her son's behaviour, which was exem-
plary in every particular. Had she absolutely forbidden

Cousins.

him to visit the farm, however much it had hurt him., she
would have been obeyed. He made such haste with his
dressing that he was in the drawing-room before her, and
when she entered she thought how handsome he looked in
his evening dress, the velvet jacket setting forth the fairness
of his face. It was too fair, more like a girl's fragile loveli-
ness than the sturdy beauty of a growing boy.

" You have lost no time, Will," she said, greeting him
with a smile, for in her heart she loved him with a surpass-
ing love. " lam sure it is not fifteen minutes since I saw
you cross the park."

" No, I stayed too long. I am glad I have noi kept you
waiting, mamma," he said, coiii .(^ously, and offered his arm
to lead her to the dininii-room.

Dinner at Studleigh was always a quiet and rather tedious
meal, to Will at least. It was as ceremonious in every par-
ticular of service as if the long table were filled with guests;
and it was always a relief to him when his mother rose.

'• Come with me to the drawing-room, dear, I want to
talk to y u," she said, as he held open the door for her. " I
don't sup|jose you want to sit here. Just come now."

He followed the graceful figurj across the hall, thinking
that the glistening black draperies seemed to add to her
greater dignity and height. Will Ayre had a passionate
admiratioii for his mother's beauty ; he loved her, too, and
would have poured the treasures of his boyish adoration at
her feet, had she allowed it. But the same distant coldness
of mien which had been wont to chill the husband now
chilled the son.

" Come and sit down here, Will, opposite to me. I want
to talk to you. You have been at the farm all afternoon. I
saw your cousins walk over with you."

" Yes, mamma," answered the boy, eagerly, encouraged
by the kindness of her voice. "Mayn't I have Clem and
Evy over to spend a day here } They've been so awfully
good to me ; you've no idea."

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134

77/r Ay res of Stndhigh.

" If your fondness for the place is any evidence, I don't
need to be told of their goodness," she said, drily. "If
you are bent on having them over, I am quite willing ; but
I think it right to tell you that I do not wish you to continue
this close intimacy at Pine Edge "

" Why not, mamma ? They are my cousins, and I like
them so much."

" It did not matter very much when you were quite
children, Will," said his mother, calmly. " But as you grow
up it must be different. It will not be good for you nor
them that you should be so intimate, because of course
they are not your equals."

" Why, mamma, Uncle Geoff was papa's own brother."

" Yes, but his wife was only a farmer's daughter. Will ;
and if you associate too much with your cousin Clement,
you will unfit him for the siation he must fill. He must
soon be working for his bread."

" Why, mother, he is going to be a soldier," cried Will.
" I am quite sure Aunt Rachel has really made up her mind
to send him to Eton, and of course he will go to Sandhurst
after, and I'm sure he'll be a general in no time, he's such a
splendid fellow."

Lady Emily's passionate colour rose — " Eton and
Sandhurst ! "

" Eton and Sandhurst ! "

" I thought your aunt had common sense. Will, whatever
else she lacked," she said, with the haste of anger. " I sec
I have been mistaken."

" Mamma, I wish you would explain things to me," said
the boy. " Is Aunt Rachel not a lady that you cannot ask
her here, nor go to see her ? I think she is nearly as lovelv
as you."

A slight bitter smile touched the proud mother's lips.

" Thank you for your compliment, dear, I am honoured
by it. I will try to explain this to you, for I do not wish
you to think me hard or unjust. It was a great mistake for

Coil si us.

t35

your Uncle Geoffrey to marry beneath him as he did, though,
of course, he was too honourable a man to draw back. It
was perhaps just as well he died when he did."

" Mamma, didn't papa like Aunt Rachel ? I think he
must have been very kind to her, she talks of him so
beautifully."

"Your father, dear, was too good for this world, and your
Uncle Geoffrey could make him do anything. He was kind
to her, and I am glad sh is so grateful for it. Do you
understand. Will, that it will please me very much if you are
a little more reserved to your cousins, and do not ^j so
frequently to the farm ? There need be no open rupture ;
you can leave off gradually so as not to hurt their feelings.
Believe me, when I say it will be much better for you and
for them — but especially for them — that the parting should
be made now. You think it hard, dear. I have long
wished to speak of this, but waited until you were old
enough to understand me. Some day you will know your
mother was wise for you, though you do not see it now."

The boy looked troubled ; nay, there was positive pain in
his eyes. A hundred questions and expostulations were on
his lips, but he restrained them. He felt that his mother's
decision being made, it was useless for him to protest.
But for the first time in his young life a hot and bitter
rebellion filled his soul.

i|.

CHAPTER XVI.

MR GILLOT'S errand.

;• }!

W ''I

pjEANWHILE the other mother and son were
earnest in conversation at the farm. When

Clement and his sister returned from escorting
their cousin across the fie;ds, the boy went
straight to the dining-room to his mother, with a question
on his hps. For the first time it had struck the happy-
hearted Clement that there was something very odd and
one-sided in their relationship with Will. And, as was
natural to him, the thought must be spoken out at once.
Candour was an essential part of Clement's character.

" Mother, why does Will come so much here, and never
ask us to go to Studleigh ? I never thought of it till now,
but I think it's horrid mean when he has so many jolly
things up there."

Rachel laid down her sewing and turned her large, calm
eyes on her son's bright face. Of late she had had many
questionings to answer, but this v^as delicate ground which
she had always avoided, though knowing very well it must
be cleared some day. There were times when Rachel
r.lmost longed to keep her darling bairns about her knee,
so that she could still their wonderings and imaginings with
a kiss. But that could not be.

Mr Gillots Errand.

137

"I wonder, Clement, whether you are old enough to
understand what I am about to say," she replied, "or if it
will be wise for me to tell you just how it is."

Clement looked surprised.

" Why, yes, mother ; am I awfully stupid ? I always know
what you mean."

" Well, dear, I must go back a little. When your father
married me I was only a farmer's daughter, and Lady Emily,
your Uncle William's wife, being the daughter of Lord
Portmayne, did not think I was fit to be received as her
equal. I cannot explain to you why, my boy. As you grow
older you will learn to understand these things. They
cannot be explained. I know very well, Clement, that
Lady Emily does not approve of Will coming so often here,
but so long as he does come, we must be kind to him —
must we not, dear ? "

" Of course. Will 's an awfully good fellow ; and I'll tell
you what, mother, I'm no end sorry for him though he is
the Squire of Studleigh; for his mother isn't so jolly as
ours." Clement spoke in a perfectly matter-of-fact voice ;
but that unstudied and loving tribute sent a thrill to the
mother's heart, and she smiled ; but presently her face grew
graver again.

"As you grow older, Clement, I fancy it will be more difficult
to know just how to act towards Will and his mother."

" But, mother, do you mean to say Aunt Emily thinks
she is better than you ? "

Honest and fiery indignation sat supreme on Clement's
flushed face.

"In a sense, yes. As I said before, you will understand
these distinctions only when you grow uu and go out into
the world."

" I don't care lor such distinctions, and I think she is a
horrid old thing," quoth Clement, in his outspoken fashion,
" Never mind, mother, you have Evy and me, and we're as
jolly as we can be."

f
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■38

TJie Ay res of Stndleii^h.

Rachel lauglicd outright.

" My clear, I don't mind in the least, I assure you, and I
am very conscious of my blessings. I have made up my
mind sitting here, Clement, that you shall go back to Eton
with Will."

" Oh, mother, you are a brick."

There was no mistaking the heartiness of the ring which
accompanied these words, and Rachel could not but be
glad in her boy's gladness. And yet she knew very well
that at Eton Clement would be made to feel the first sting
of the difference between himself and his cousin.

" But what does Evy say to the separation ? " she asked
presently, looking over to the small maiden standing rather
disconsolately by the table.

" I'll have nobody to play with," she announced, simply,
and with great gravity.

" Oh, but you'll look after Spottie and the puppies, and
feed the rabbits, and all that, you know," said Clement,
reassuringly. ** And just think, you can ride Pippin all the
time till I come back."

But these bright visions did not appear to console Evy
altogether, for her red lip quivered. She was a singularly
sweet-tempered, unselfish child, resembling her mother in
disposition, but perhaps it was not to be wondered .at that
Rachel's heart clung with a more passionate love to the boy,
who was his father's living image, and was fired by the same
enthusiasm and impulsiveness of mood. Both were very
dear to her, and it is just to say that never were two children
treated with a more perfect equality.

" I daresay Evy and I will manage to pass the time. I
shall try to fill your place, Clem, when you are away,"
Rachel said, pleasantly; and just then a horse and rider
came quickly up the little approach, and Clem ran off
eagerly to see who the unusual visitant could be. It was
Mr Gillot, the attorney from Ayreleigh, and Clement, ever
ready when arrivals were announced, speedily relieved him

Mr Gillofs Errand.

139

of the horse, whi'^h he led away to the stables, Evelyn
following, as usual, her close companionsliip in all her
hrother's sports and interests having intensified her natural
love for animals.

Rachel received Mr Gillot at the door, and looked
surprised as she felt, to see him so late. He was her legal
adviser, as well as the family solicitor to Studleigh —
Christopher Abbot having left his daughter's affairs entirely
in the hands of his trusted friend. The old man had felt
that he could not sleep till he had had an interview with
the " Captain's wife," as Rachel was always called, and had
ridden over immediately after dinner.

*' No, it isn't a friendly call, it's business, and not pleasant
business either, Mrs Geoffrey," he said, answering her
question almost brusquely. " Are you alone ? I want to
speak to you for half an hour."

" Certainly, come in. I hope there has been no serious
disaster at the Thekla mines, Mr Gillot," she answered
with a smile, "because I have just made up my mind
that the next dividend should pay my son's fees at Eton."

" I wish it was nothing more than a flooding at the
Thekla, or even an absconding mining engineer," said the
old man, shaking his head. " I suppose you have not the
'east idea what I'm after ? "

" Not the slightest," Rachel answered, and motioning the
attorney to a seat she drew up the blind at the front window
to admit the last rays of the settin;^ sun.

" Well, I had a visit this afternoon from Eady Emily."

"Yes?"

Rachel's smile faded : and she waited, apprehensive of
some trouble, though she could not put it in shape.

" Did you know, Mrs Geoffrey, that the lease of the farm
expires next Ladyday ? "

"What farm?"

"This farm — Pine Edge."

"Does it'r' No. I didn't know. Will there be ijome

■

i
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[

Ii':

140

The Ayres of Studleigh.

formalities connected with its renewal on account of my
father's death ? " asked Rachel ; and at her direct, uncon-
cerned question Mr Gillot almost groaned. The possibility,
that at any time she might be called upon to quit the place
had evidently never suggested itself to her mind. It made
his task all the harder, but it had to be gone through.

" Lady Emily called on me this afternoon, Mrs Geoffrey,
to say that she will not renew it," he said desperately.

" Not renew it ! I don't understand you, Mr Gillot.
What did Lady Emily mean ?"

"What she said, unfortunately. She has made up her
mind that you are to quit Pine Edge, Mrs Geoffrey."

Rachel looked at the attorney with wide-open eyes, and
the slight colour paled out of her face.

" That I am to quit Pine Edge," she repeated.

" Oh, Mr Gillot, you must have misunderstood her. Lady
Emily would never suggest anything so absurd."

" My dear, she not only suggested it — she laid it down as
an unalterable decision. You have grievously offended her
in some way, and she is a haughty and vindictive woman.
Our only chance lies with the young Squire."

Slowly the truth dawned upon Rachel, and the lawyer
saw the quick, bright colour leap back to her cheek, and an
expression to her face which he had never before seen.

" Lady Emily came to ask you to serve a notice to quit
upon me, Mr Gillot," she said, quietly. " Is that right ? "

" Quite right."

" Did she give any reason for this extraordinary decision,
may I ask ? "

" She made a lame excuse about the place being
neglected, but I pulled her up sharp on that head. Upon
my word I did. I've been wondering at my own temerity
ever since."

" Mr Gillot, you were my father's old and true friend, as
you have been mine since his death. What do you think
can be the motive for this ? "

3ii:

Mr Gillot's Errand.

141

"Well, my dear, since you ask me, I will tell you quite
plainly — it's jealousy."

A faint, incredulous smile flitted across Rachel's pale
face.

"That can hardly he. It is too absurd. How can the
great lady of Studleigh Manor be jealous of an obscure
woman, who affects anc'l presumes nothing, but only tries
to do her duty by her children, Mr Clillot?"

"I am right, my dear; but I will be more explicit. She
is jealous of the people's love for you. She hears you
spoken of, as every onV speaks of you — and well they may
—with the highest gratitude and love. She is jealous
because her boy likes to be with you, and she is jealous of
these two fine children of yours — of that tall, manly, noble
son, and that bonnie little girl, who, unless I am much
mistaken, will make sad havoc in Ayreleigh yet."

** But all that, supposing it to be true, is no fault of
mine, Mr Gillot. There can be no offence where none is
intended, and it is most unjust and most unreasonable of
Lady Emily to punish me when I have done no wrong."

"Agreed, but the fact remains. There is not much
reason in women — that is in some women — begging your
pardon," said the old man, bluntly, but Rachel apparently
did not hear or heed him. She had turned slightly away
from him, and her eyes were looking through the front
window, beyond the shadowy solemn pine tops down upon
the fertile valley of the Ayre, where the clear river wound
its way between its green and love!/ banks. Leave Pine
Edge, her dear and only home, hallowed by countless
memories — hallowed by associations most sacred. Oh,
anything, anything but that !

" Mr Gillot " — Rachel's voice sounded very clear and
sharp when she spoke again— "can I refuse to go?"

" No, my dear, you (\an't. Our only chance, as I
said before, lies with the young Squire, and even he
is in a manner powerless. His mother has absolute

142

The Ay res of StitdUii^Ji.

control in the nicaiitiinc, and I (jucstion if in tliis matter
even his entreaties would avail much."

"I shall go to her myself, Mr (lillot. I have not asked
many favours from Lady Emily. When she understands
what this decision of her's means for me, she will never
insist upon it, I feel sure. She would never be so
cruel."

Mr Gillot was not sanguine. In f^ict, looking at the
young widow's haughty and slightly defiant mien, he did
not think it i)rol)al)le that she would make a successful
suj)[)liant. But he did not demur.

"Lady Emily thinks you ought, for your son's sake, to
be living at Stonecroft," he said, presently.

" It cannot matter much where we live. I cannot
keep my son with me, even if I would. He will be nothing
but a soldier, Mr Gillot. His whole thoughts are of battles
and sieges and hairbreadth escapes. It would be madness
to try and put him past it."

"Well, well, knowing what his brave father was, we can't
regret it," said the attorney, cheerfully. •'! confess I
should be disappointed if anything else were to satisfy
him."

" I question, Mr Gillot, whether Lady Emily has the
right to put the representatives of the Abbots out of Pine
Edge," Rachel said again, quickly and decisively. " Do
three centuries of tenancy carry no rights with them ? "

*' No, it's only use and wont, Mrs Geoffrey. So long as
rent is paid for land, it's just like a house. My landlord
can say to me any day, I want your house for myself, and
provided he gives me fair notice, I must walk out at his
time without a word."

" It is hard, it is cruelly hard," exclaimed Rachel,
bitterly. "You can testify how anxious and unremitting
I have been in my care for the place. I have spared no
expense where servants are concerned in order that the
land might not suffer. I have eyes, Mr Gillot, and I can

Mr GilloCs Errand.

143

IS the
pine
"Do

)ng as
idlord
f, and
at his

Lachcl,
tiitting
red no
lat the
1 can

see for myself how the farm is looking, even if I had not
any returns in hard cash to show for it. Never, even in
my father's best days, did Tine Edge pay him so well as it
lias paid me."

"My dear, I know it. I told her ladyship all that, hut I
was speaking to a dead wall. She has made up her mind
that you are to go."

"Then there are other things to think of. Look at the
house, for instance. 'I'he Abbots have made it what it is,

and "

"These arguments won't hold, Mrs (leoffrcy," inter-
rupted the attorney, shaking his head. " Kverybody knows
tliat Pine Edge is fit for any gentleman to live in, and
everybody knows whose money paid for it. But the
Abbots did it without bein" asked, simply for their own
pleasure and profit. These are hard truths, my dear, but
they are truths. Suppose you go out of the Edge to-
morrow, you can't lay claim to a penny as compensation
for improvements."

"The money is nothing. It is not a question of money,"
returned Rachel, passionately. " I have looked forward to
spending my life here, Mr Clillot, and hoped to die in my
old home when the time came. It will break my heart if
I have to leave it. I cannot, I cannot ! "

Never had Mr Gillot seen the daughter of his old friend
so deeply moved. He had not hitherto understood her.
She had appeared to him sometimes to be very cold and
reserved, and self-contained. 13ut he knew now how
passionate was the heart beneath, how cjuick and strong
the feelings, how close and clinging the attachment, not to
human beings alone, but to places which memory hallowed.
He was filled v/ith a deep compassion for her, as he looked
on her flushed face, and saw the nervous motions of her
hands as she moved up and down the room.

"Were I you, Mrs Geoffrey, I would lay the whole
matter befprQ the young Squire," he suggested-

]' "I

144

TJic Ay res of Studleigh.

"No, because then Lady Emily might justly accuse me
of seeking to influence her son, and I love him too well to
put him in such a painful position. No, I shall be open
and frank with her a'^d shall plead my own cause. 1 am a
proud woman, Mr Gillot, perhaps prouder thc.n Lady Emily
herself, but to-morrow I shall bury that pride and go as a
suppliant to Studleigh, where I have never been admitted
as an equal. Yes, it will cost me something ; but it would
cost me very much more to leave my dear old home. If
she has a woman's heart at all I shall touch it to compas-
sion before I go."

' '' ''n

*■ ".

*. ..\

CHAPTER XVII.

IN VAIN.

|HE children felt that night that something most
'^Wl^} ^""sual had happened to vex their mother. She
^i^lX was very silent at the supper-table, and, greatly
to their surprise, she sent them to bed without
reading to them from the Bible, as was her wont. Rachel
was scrupulously conscientious, and she felt in too stormy
a mood to make reading from the Word profitable or com-
forting. When she came into Clement's room after he was
in bed, he looked up into her proudly set face, with deep
anxiety in his eyes—

"Mother, what has old Gillot been saying to you? He
has vexed you awfully ! " he exclaimed in his impulsive
\va)'.

" Yes, dear, he has ; at least the message he brought
vexed me. Mr Gillot is a wise man and a true friend,
Clement, who has been invaluable to me," his mother re-
plied, as she laid her hand on his brow. Usually that
gentle hand was cool and soothing in its touch ; to-night
he felt it hot and unsteady.

"Won't you tell me what it is, mother? I'm big now,
and I understand things," he asked, raising himself on his
dhow in his earnestness, for all his chivalrous tenderness
for his mother was roused at sight of her distress.

t )

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146

T/ie Ayres of Studleigh.

" Not to-night, my darling. To-morrow in all probability
I shall be obliged to tell you. It is not that I do not trust
you, Clement, only that I cannot trust myself. I want to
be gentle and charitable and patient, as your uncle William
used to be in the midst of many troubles."

Then Clen>ent knew as surely as if he had been told
that his Aunt Emily was at the bottom of his mother's new
trouble. She bade him lie do' and sleep, and so left him
with a kiss, Evy slept in a little bed in mother's room,
and when Rachel entered it the child was already fast asleep.
It was a lovely face, dimpled and dainty and sweet, framed
in its tossing dark hai.', the long dark lashes lying like a
fringe on the flushed cheek. Rachel knelt down, and
laying her cheek on the child's hand, where it lay outside
the coverlet, gave way for a moment to the bitterness which
surged in her breast. Her heart was sore, sore ; she was
feeling more and more her loneliness, and the difficulties of
her position. Never had woman more earnestly striven to
do her faithful duty ; she had sacrificed her own feelings
many times, in order that the name she bore might not
become the common talk of the county \ she had meekly
borne the slights which the Manor had cast upon the farm-
in a word, she had suffered uncomplainingly at the hands
Lady Emily, and made no sign. But the crisis had come.
The injustice, the cruel unreason of the message sent by her
sister-in-law roused her indignation, as well as awakened an
agony of sorrow. Her whole being revolted from the
prospect of leaving Pine Edge, the dear home to which she
was bound by every tie of association and memory. She
would not let it go without a struggle. She would humble
herself before the proud mistress of Studleigh, and for her
children's sake ask to be allowed to remain. But the re-
quest would be strangely like a command, because in her
heart of hearts Rachel felt that it was a request which she
ought never to have been called upon to make.

J^ext morning at breakfast she strove to be cheerful, but

In Vain.

the sharp eyes of Clement were not deceived. He saw that
his mother was in a highly nervous state, and that she was
talking at random. He would have given much to know
what was the meaning of it, but he was too well trained to
ask a second question, after whr.t he had been told the
night before.

" Evy and I are going over this morning to Studleigh,
Clement," she said, as she rose from the table.

" Evy and you to Studleigh ! " he reiterated, in boundless
surprise. " What for ? Mayn't I go too, mother ? "

" No, dear, but you may walk v» ith me, if you like, to the
edge of the park. I will tell you some day, my son, why
I took Evy this morning instead of you."

Clement asked no further question, but was ready at the
door when his mother and sister came down.

Accustomed as she was to her children's implicit obedi-
ence, Rachel could not but wonder at the self-control and
consideration shown to her by Clement. It was marvellous
in so young a boy ; and as she walked behind them by the
dewy field-paths towards the stately trees of Studleigh, she
reproached herself for her rebellious discontent, knowing
that in these two dear children she was boundlessly blessed.
The labour and care she had unshrinkingly bestowed upon
them since infancy were bearing fruit already. The prayers
of the widow were not all unanswered.

So a softer, sweeter expression came upon the beautiful, calm
face; better and more tender feelings returned to her heart.

*' You can wait here, dear," she said to Clement, when
they reached the confines of the park. " We shall not be
very long, or if you wish you can go home. You don't
mind me leaving you here, dear? I think I'm doing right."
" Oh, no, I don't mind in the least. I'll just have a
stroll over to the Copse Road and back. They're to be
sowing that bad breadth over again, Mellish said : so I'll
look down."
Rachel nodded and smiled, then taking Evy's hand in

148

The Ay res of Studleigh.

hers crossed the little footpath into the broad, beautiful
avenue, which had a perfect canopy of waving green bou is
overhead. The child by her side chattered on, poinang
out the daisies on the smooth turf, and the beautiful stately
" candles " on the branching chestnuts, not noticing how
very silent and grave her mother grew as they came near
to the house. Rachel had not crossed the threshold of
Studleigh Manor since the day on which they had buried
its beloved master, when her presence had been formally
required in the library at the reading of the will.

The outer door was wide open, and within Rachel
noticed a new arrangement — a screen and doors of painted
Cathcdval glass dividing the inner from the outer hall.
That had been done since the Squire's death, and though
no doubt it added to the comfort of the house, Rachel had
a pleasant memory of the spacious hall as it used to be in
the Squire's time, with its soft tinted Turkey carpet,
brightened here and there by a gay Indian rug, and the
tall, graceful branches of the palms, for which Studleigh
conservatories were famed.

The bell, wh !ch Rachel rung with difficulty, startled the
deep sounding echoes through the house, and brought the
footman hurrying upstairs, surprised at being called upon to
admit visitors so early. His face, at sight of the lady at
the door, was quite a study : but, in reply to her request
for Lady Emily, he ushered her in with great respect to the
library. He was a discreet person, and thought it well to
take Mrs Geoffrey's name to his mistress first.

" Say I wish to see Lady Emily on important business,
and that I can wait her convenience," Rachel said, as she
took her seat, and the man gathered from both words and
manner that Mrs Geoffrey did not intend to leave the
Manor without seeing its mistress.

Somewhat awed by the gloomy grandeur of the room,
Evelyn stood close by her mother's side, with her hand
firmly clasped in hers.

/;/ K

am.

149

They made quite a picture, the fine child in her white
serge dress against the dark folds of the widow's mourning
garb. But Rachel thought not at all of how they looked.
She was conscious of an almost overpowering nervousness
— which, however, did not betray itself in look or manner.
After a slight interval, the footman returned to the library.

" Her ladyship will see you in the drawing-room, if you
please," was tne message he brought ; and the pair followed
him across the beautiful inner hall once more, and into
another room, the rich fragrant warmth of which brought a
strange sensation of sickness stealing over Rachel.

" Mrs Ayre, my lady," the servant said, and instantly
withdrew. Rachel walked straight into the room — erect,
stately, self-possessed. Although it was a mild morning, a
clear fire burned in the grate, and the air was heavy with
the sweet odour from the choice blooms with which every
table and cabinet was laden. It seemed a dream of beauty
to the wondering little girl clinging close to her mother's
skirts, but Rachel saw none of it. Her attention was con-
centrated on the figure by the hearth— that graceful, supple
figure in white, with the bunch of sweet violets in her
girdle. A white gown was Lady Emily's favourite attire,
and she wore it with a matchless becomingness and grace.
She rose slowly, turned her beautiful face to her sister-in-
law, and recognised her by a gracious bow.

' Good-morning. Will you be seated ? " she said, cour-
teously, but coldly, as she might have spoken to the merest
stranger. Rachel regarded her for some brief moments in
wondering silence. Her manner was superb. It betrayed
no embarrassment, it was the perfectness of repose.

"I have to apologise for thus intruding, Lady Emily,"
Rachel began, in a clear, unfaltering tone. " The urgency
of my business is my excuse. Mr Gillot paid me a visit
last evening, shortly after you had been to his otticc."

" Yes."

The monosyllable fell with a fine "ndiffereiice from the

ill

150

T/ie Ayres of SUidleigh.

patrician's lips. " Do be seated. If not, pray excuse me
sitting. Won't your daughter — I presume it is your
daughter — come near to the fire?"

Rachel gave her head an impatient shake.

" Evelyn, sit down there, dear," she said to the child,
then looked again at her sister-in law's face.

" Will you tell me with your own lips, Lady Emily, where-
in I have so direly offended you that you seek to punish
me so severely ? " she asked, quietly.

Lady Emily elevated her straight brows in mild irony.

** You use dramatic language. There has been no
offence, therefore the question of punishment is absurd.
The case stands thus — I believe that the farm would be
better in more competent hands. Pardon, but a lady is
naturally expected to be ignorant of the details of farm
management. In my son's interests, I think it well that
the place should be let to a thoroughly practical man."

" That is not your true reason. Lady Emily," Rachel
answered, still quietly. " I have come this morning to ask
what it is."

Lady Emily slightly winced under the candid, unhesitat-
ing words, and the straight, penetrating glance which
accompanied it.

" If I had another reason, I am not bound to give it, I
suppose," she answered, languidly. " But since you nsk
me, I will say that I think you have shamefully neglected
Stouecroft, your son's portion, during all these years."

" You speak without knowledge. Lady Emily," Rachel
ans'vered, gently still, for she saw the woman was ill at
ease, and she pitied her with a great pity. "Stonecroft
has been conscientiously cared for, and my son will have
no reason to complain of his mother's regency when he
comes to his own. I have not asked many kindnesses ?X
your hands, Lady Emily, nor have I presumed at all upon
our relationship. But I do ask you this morning to do me
a favour for which I shall never cease to be grateful I

In Vain.

I5«

wish to spend my life in Pine Ldge. I hope to die in it.
If you will allow me to remain I shall endeavour to meet
your wishes at every point. I am as anxious for the wel-
fare of the place as you can be. The Abbots have been so
long in the farm that they have forgotten that they are only
tenants."

" A great error, an evil in fact," supplemented Lady
Emily, drily. " What do you intend to make of your son,
Mrs Ayre ? "

" My son will be nothing but a soldier. He goes to
Eton immediately, and afterwards, I suppose, to Sand-
hurst," Rachel answered. " It is not for my son's sake I
ask the favour. It is entirely a kindness to myself. I love
the place. I have known no other home. I should be
miserably unhappy away from it."

Lady Emily looked for the first time fully and critically
at the little girl sitting meekly on the ottoman, with her
brown hands clasped on her knee, awed into stillness by
something in the atmosphere of the room. She was a fair
creature, a child whom mansion or palace might be proud
to own. A shadow crossed Lady Emily's face. There
were times when she Icnged passionately for another child, a
daughter who would be more to her than a son. Mr Gillot
was right. She grudged her sister-in-law her double blessing.

"You are ambitious for your son, Mrs Geoffrey," she
said, with a faint, cold smile.

"I have to consider what his father would have wished
for him had he lived," Rachel answered, briefly. " But we
are away from the point. Will you allow me to remain at
Pine Edge, Lady Emily? I brought my little girl to help
me to plead," she said, vith a slight, sad smile towards the
child. "Evy, will you ask Lady Emily to allow us to
remain at Pine Edge ? "

But the child never spoke. Her mother saw her draw
herself away a little, as if she felt the coldness of the gaze
fixed upon her„

IS2

The Ayres of SUidleigh.

" I am quite willing, if you wish it, to pay something for
the privilege of remaining," Rachel went on again in htr
direct, candid fashion. " If money can buy me this satis-
faction — and it is no ordinary satisfaction — I shall not say
a word against an increased rent."

" It is not a question of money. I have considered the
matter in all its bearings. I have interests and desires to
be considered also," Lady Emily replied. " I assure you
I have not arrived at this decision hastily. It has been
most carefully considered, and I think that it will be better
for many reasons that the farm should have a new tenant."

Rachel's face flushed and her eyes filled with tears.

" Is this an unalterable decision ? " she asked, and at the
altered voice Lady Emily winced again. She was not
made of stone. She had harboured a ceaseless and cause-
less jealousy of the sweet woman before her, but she felt
in her heart of hearts that she was guilty of a great injustice.

" When I have made up my mind and passed my word
I do not care to recall it," she said, in tones which her
accusing conscience made harsh and cold.

" I have one more suggestion to make, Lady Emily. It
is impossible you can know how precious that place is to
me. how hallowed it is by memory. I feel that it will
sadden my life if I have to leave it. Will you sell it to
me ? "

Lady Emily opened her eyes in wide wonder.

" Do you know what you are speaking of, Mrs Geoffrey ?
Have you the slightest idea of the value of the farm ? "

"Yes. I know its value to the uttermost farthing. It
is worth six thousand pounds. I am willing to pay seven
thousand for it."

"You must be a rich woman to speak so lightly of
thousands."

" I am not poor. Will you consider this offer since you
will not consider me as a remaining tenant. I am in
earnest, and I know that Pine Edge is not in the entail."

In Vain.

153

" I could not sell the place. You forget it is my son's,
and I could not advise him to divide his patrimony," was
the guarded answer.

Rachel turned away, and held out her hand to her little
girl.

" Come, Evy."

Her voice sounded strange in the little child's ears, and
she made haste to clasp her little hands about her mother's
cold fingers. Then she looked once very steadily in the
face of Emily Ay re.

" I have never done you a wrong, Lady Emily, as God
is my witness, even in thought. I accept your decision,
and I shall trouble you no more. I pray that the day may
never come when you shall suffer as you have made me
sufter to-day, ay, and other days, which you and I re-
member. God shall judge between us. Farewell ! "

1-- ;

f :,

'i 1-' ■ ,tj .^ • ^

^wV
•«*•

CHAPTER XVIII.

"kind hearts are more than coronets."

^jHE young Squire had been for his morning canter,
and rode up the avenue as Rachel and her
little girl left the house. He thought both
figures familiar, but could not believe at the
first glance that his eyes did not deceive him. They
turned across the Park before he reached them, but he
dismounted in a moment — left his horse to enjoy a bite of
the tender young grass, and strode through the still trees.
His mother, from the drawing-room window, saw this
action, and stood still to watch. She had good eyes, and
the distance was not great ; she could therefore discover
quite clearly the expression of each ^ace.

" Aunt Rachel, have you really been at the house ? Did
you see mamma ? " he asked, eagerly. " I am so sorry I
was out."

Rachel detected the note of anxiety in the boy's kind
voice, and knew that he was not at rest concerning that
early call and its object. She put up her veil, and gave
him her hand in kindliest greeting.

Will, with a sudden, graceful impulse, bent his head and
touched it with his lips.

"It did not matter, dear Will, it was your mother I
wished to see."

" Kind Hearts are more than Coronets^ 155

"And you saw her, I hope," he said, with the same
etigemess. " I am sure she would be glad to welcome you
to Studleigh at last."

For answer Rachel burst into tears. Her nerves were
overstrung ; the strain upon them in the last hour liad lieen
very great.

" Dear Aunt Rachel, wliat has happened ? "

Genuine distress was in Will's face as he asked the
question.

" Do tell me. It is fearful to see you vexed like that.
What is it ? "

"Your mother will tell you, Will — I cannot speak about
it," Rachel answered, hurriedly. " It would have been
better had you gone on and not spoken this morning. I
am sorry if I have grieved you."

" I don't want to seem curious. Aunt Rachel, but I wish
you would tell me what is the matter. Mamma thinks of
things so differently that "

The boy paused there, and his sensitive colour rose.
Rachel loved him for that fine, loyal touch. She saw that
he would not judge where he could not understand.

"Let me walk with you to the farm, Aunt Rachel. 1
can get a groom in a moment to take the horse, and wc
can talk as we go," he said, quickly.

" No, dear, it will be better not. Clem is waiting for us
at the stile. Go to mother. Will, and ask her to tell you
my errand this morning. She will tell you frankly, I feel
siire. I do not need to ask you, dear boy, to remember
that your first duty and consideration must be towards her.
God bless you."

She laid her two hands on his slender shoulders and
kissed him on the brow. Lady Emily saw that caress, and
not hearing the unselfish words which accompanied it, felt
her causeless anger burn anew against that inoffensive
woman. She knew in her deep heart that Rachel Ayre
possessed a potent charm which she lacked — a charti)

IS6

The Ay res of StudleigJi.

which drew every heart, young and old, to her, and bound
them to her in the bonds of a reverent love. She grudged
her that sweet possession, and inwardly blamed and con-
demned her for seeking by some underhand means to wean
away her son's affection from his mother and his home.

Rachel spoke gently but decisively, and clasping Evy's
hand in hers walked on.

" It rained last night, Will, and Clem says the brook will
be splendid for fishing. Won't you come to the pool this
afternoon ? " Evy asked.

" I'll see. I'll be over anyhow, Aunt Rachel, after I
have spoken to mamma," Will answered, and with a touch
to his cap walked away. A groom had already taken his
horse, so that he strode directly into the house and straight
to the drawing-room in his riding boots, and whip in hand.

" Mamma, what did Aunt Rachel want, and why is she
so awfully vexed?" he burst out the moment he was
within the door.

"Did sh > not tell you?"

*' No. She said vou would. What is it ? "

" A very sin^ple thing, and certainly not worth the fuss.
We have decided not to renew the lease of Pine Edge to
her, and she elects to feel frightfully aggrieved."

Lady Emily answered carelessly \ but she narrowly watched
her son's face, secretly afraid of his outspoken indignation.

" Not renew it ! What does that mean ; that Aunt
Rachel must leave the place ? "

" Yes, of course, there is no hardship. Her home ought
to be at Stonecroft during Clement's minority. I told her
so quite frankly ; but your aunt is a very extraordinary
woman, Will ; quite too highly strung and dramatic for a
practical person like me. Of course, you will take her
part."

" If Aunt Rachel wishes to remain at the farm I can't see
why anybody should wish to put h^r away," said AVill,
Quietly.

" Kind Hearts are more than Corontts,''

157

" You are only a schoolboy, and cannot be expected to
take everything into consideration. In the meantime you
have made these people your pet h()l)l>y, to which every-
tliing must be sacrificed. It is well you have a wise
mother to look after your interests."

Will looked grave and peri)lexed.

"You said *we' had deciiled not to renew the lease.
Who is * we ' ? Has Clillot anything to do with it ? "

" Really, Will, two courses of catechism of a morning is
too much," his mother retorted, with unusual sharpness.
"If you are so particular about pronouns, /am the only
person responsible for this decision, and you must know
that I cannot alter it."

" Hut, mother, it can't be right. Why, the Abbots have
been there so long. Have we any right to put them out !"
cried Will, hotly ; and never had his mother seen him both
so manly and so handsome. "Aunt Rachel feels it terribly.
I believe it will break her heart. Besides, it will be awfully
dull with strangers at the Edge. It's so jolly having Clem
and Evy there, and to be able to run over any time.
Mother, I can't help it if you are angry. I do love them
all, and I think it will be a shame to put them out unless
they want to go."

"I can't discuss the matter with you, Will ; you are
devoid of reason or common-sense where these people are
concerned," she said turning from him w'th a gesture of
scorn.

The boy's angry colour rose at the cutting words. He
was like his father in many things, and though his anger
was rare, it burned strong and fierce when it 7vas roused.
He turned upon his heel, closed the drawing-room door,
and, giving a curt order to a passing servant to have his
horse sent round again, he left the house. Five minutes
later his mother saw him canter down the avenue, and
enter in up the Copse Road, and smiled bitterly to herself,
thinking he had gone to the farm.

ffT

1^8

The Ay res of Studleigh.

But Will had a further ride than the farm in view that
April morning. Mr Gillot was standing at his office window
after his morning letters had been looked at, thinking, it
must be told, of the very matter that had been under discus-
sion at the Manor that morning. He felt no surprise when,
hearing the sharp click of hoofs, he looked into the High
Street, and saw the young Squire. He smiled slightly when
he drew rein at the door, and signed to an ostler at the
County Hotel door to take his horse. A moment more and
he was shown into Mr Gillot's room.

" Good-morning, Mr Gillot. Am I too early ? I want to
speak to you about the farm, my aunt's farm, I mean," he
said, as he shook hands.

" None too early, Mr William. I am glad to see you,"
answered the attorney, as he offered a chair. But Will
j)referred to stand, and leaning against the old-fashioned
bureau, with his riding-switch somewhat impatiently tapping
his boot, he looked straight into the old man's face.

"Mr Gillot, my mother wishes Mrs Ayre to leave Pine
Edge. I wish her to stay. Have I the power as well as
the will ? " he asked, candidly.

"Only so far as this. If you express a strong 'vish to
Lady Emily, she may reconsider her decision, but as matters
were left by the Squire, you cannot do anything of that sort
against her wishes."

Will looked deeply disappointed.

" Who told you of it, Mr Will ? "

" My mother. Mrs Ayre was at the Manor this morning."

" Was she, indeed ; and did you hear the result of the
interview ! " asked the attorney, with eager interest.

" It had no result. My mother is still determined that
she shall leave the place. I cannot understand it, Mr
Gillot. It seems so unreasonable and unkind. I wish I
could say to Mrs Ayre, you can remain ah- ong as you live,"
said the young Squire, passionately.

" 13ut you can't, Mr Will, for five and a half years ^\

" Kind Hearts are more than Coronets**

159

least. I would advise you not to trouble any more about
it. After the first wrench is over, Mrs Ayre will be very
happy and comfortable at Stonecroft. It is a most beauti-
ful place."

" Yes. But suppose I was being turned out of Studleigh
and sent to it I should not think it very beautiful. It's
quite the same thing," said Will, with a cloud on his fair
face. "Well, good-morning, Mr Gillot. There's no use
saying any more about it, as you say. I'm very much
obliged to you. I'll make it up to my aunt some other
way."

" I'm sure of it. You are your father's son, Mr Will, and
you needn't wish for any higher praise."

The attorney looked after the tall, slender figure with
affectionate pride as it strode across the Square to the
Hotel ; but when he saw the brilliant flush which the mere
exertion of mounting brought to the delicate cheek, he
shook his head.

"I doubt, I doubt it's the captain's boy who will be
Sqirire of Studleigh," he muttered, " and that would be dire
retribution on Lady Emily's head."

Will Ayre rode rapidly through the green lanes, and
when he came into the Copse Road turned up the hill to
the farm. It was now noon, and the sun shone out
brilliantly, making the country look its fairest. Never had
the picturesque house on the Edge looked more beautiful
than it did in that tender sunlight, which brought out all
the soft greyness of the old walls, and the vivid greenness
of the young ivy shoots which clothed the gables. Clement
was standing against the white post of the avenue gate
whittling a stick, and his face was as gloomy as it could be.
When he saw his cousin he flushed angrily and turned away
his head ] but Will cried out to him — " Don't go away,
Clem. I want to speak to you badly. You know very
well, old chap, it is not my fault."

"I believe it isn't," Clem admitted, in a savage under-

i| '\

■'i,;^■

i6o

The Ayres of Studleigh.

tone. " But, all the same, it 's a beastly shame ; a sin, I
say, and I don't care who hears me say it."

" I don't understand it, and I can't say anything, because
you see it 's my mother," said Will, with a touch of pathos
which went at once to Clement's impulsive heart. " If I
could help it I would. Do you think Aunt Rachel will
see me."

"Yes, I think so. J don't mean to blame you, Will, but
it 's awfully hard. It makes a fellow feel queer, especially
when it 's so hard on the mother," said Clem. " Yes, it 's
a beastly shame."

Will walked soberly by Lancelot's side with the bridle on
his arm. He felt very vexed, and the worst of it all was he
had to restrain himself entirely on account of his mother.
Somehow that morning Will felt very old and full of
trouble.

Clem took Lancelot's bridle, while Will went into the
house for one word with his aunt. She was at her desk in
the dining-room writing a letter.

" I've been to Mr Gillot, auntie, to see if I could do any-
thing, and I can't. I'm awfully sorry," he said, and the
distress in his face added another sting to Rachel's grief.

" Never mind, dear. It is all right," she said, with her
calm, sweet smile. "I am not fretting. God gives a
wonderful power of accepting the inevitable, when we truly
ask Him for it. I thank you for all your sweet kindness,
Will ; you remind me of your father more and more. I
can give you no higher pr^iise."

Will's face fl^^shed. For the second time in one morning
he heard the same words.

" If papa had lived. Aunt Rachel, how happy we should
all have been."

"Yes, but M'e need not be very unhappy even now,
Will," she said, brightly. " I am going to be very much
interested now in Stonecroft, and you must come soon and
see us in ouj new home.''

^^ Kind Hearts are more than Coronets^ i6i

"It is a long time till next Lady Day, Aunt Rachel,"
Will said with a smile.

" Yes, but I shall not remain till the last term, Will. It
would only prolong the regret. I am writing now about
Clem, and whenever he goes to Eton, Evy and I will be-
take ourselves to Stonecroft. John Mellish can look after
things just as well in my absence as when I am here."

Will never spoke. Rachel felt for him deeply, but the
matter was to delicate to be much spoken of.

"Isn't it next Wednesday you go?" she asked, as she
addressed her letter.

"Yes, on Wednesday."

" It may be Thursday before I send Clem. Don't mind
anything he says ; he is quite put out, of course, about
leaving the Edge, but he will soon forget, and I shall see
that the children miss nothing at Stonecroft. It will be a
great upheaval, almost an earthquake, getting everything
uprooted from the old place."

" I can't bear it, /..unt Rachel. I never was so miser-
able in all my life," Will cried with quivering lips and
heaving breast, and ran out of the house.

" I wish I was a man, Clem," he said, as he mounted
Lancelot again. " I'll make up for it, old fellow, when I'm
a man. Yes, I'll make up for it to Aunt Rachel and you
and Evy."

" Oh, I know you 're a brick," Clem said, heartily, and
they shook hands with a firm, brotherly grip. The lads
understood each other. They were cousins in love as well
as in name. Lady Emily was strolling on the terrace when
her son rode back to the house. She came to meet him,
and laying her hand on Lancelot's glossy neck made him
stand still, while she looked the boy keenly in the face.

" Well," she said, with a smile, " you have condoled well
with your aunt."

" I was not three minutes at the Edge, mamma. I rode
into Ayreleigh to ask Mr Gillot if I could give Aunt Rachel

1 62

The Ayres of Studleigh.

permission to stay," he answered, his blue eyes meeting
hers with a frank and fearless gaze.

" Most dutiful and respectful towards me, certainly," she
said, coldly. "Well?"

" I have no power, but were I a man, mamma, this thing
should not be ; it is not right," he said, and a strange thrill
went to the proud woman's heart ; he looked and spoke so
like his father.

" Then I went to the Edge just to say to Aunt Rachel
that I am sorry. Clem is to go to Eton next Thursday,
and Aunt Rachel and Evy are going to leave the farm at
once. She says it is needless to prolong the regret of
giving up the old place, so th-it when I come back at mid-
summer there will be nobody in the farm."

So saying he rode slowly away.

Lady Emily had achieved her heart's desire. In a few
weeks the woman she envied and yet despised would be
only a memory in the place.

Net always, however, is gratified desire an unmixed good.

CHAPTER XIX.

A NEW AMBITION,

|HE next few years were in a sense uneventful for
the persons with whom this history is concerned ;
that is, they contained no sturing incidents nor
exciting experiences, yet they were important
years for the younger generation, {since their passage gradu-
ally worked the change from childhood to youth, and when
we see them again youth had given place to early manhood
and womanhood, and the time had come for them to take
their places in the world's battle and prove themselves true
heroes.

William Ayre had attained his majority abroad, during
the winter months which the state of his health compelled
him to spend in warmer climes. There had been no re-
joicings, although messages ha J come and gone between
him and the people, who adored him with that loving
adoration which they had lavished on his father. In the
genial April following on his majority he returned to his
own, and forthwith set himself to find out in what way he
could best be a wise, faithful, and beneficent Squire of
Studleigh.

It was the mother's turn now simply to look on and keep
silence, because Will, though courteous and considerate,

1 flffl

! t ■ ,

Bhl^

164

7?/^ Ayres of Studleigh.

had his own ideas (singularly matured for his years) regard-
ing estate management and the duties of a landlord, and
from the first gave indication that he intended to put these
ideas into practic^^ The cast of his mind, needless to say,
was far r'^moved from the strict and narrow conservatism
which his mother had vainly striven to teach him. While
entertaining a profound reverence for many old institutions
which associations and memory hallowed, the young Squire
had no scruple about introducing any new improvement on
his estate, and carrying the spirit of progress into every
relation of life. It was the dread of his mother's life lest
he should set aside the traditions of his house by allying
himself with a political party whose policy struck blows at
hereditary laws, and the strict exclusiveness of class. Rut
so far young Will gave no sign of a lively interest in politics,
and seemed to find his hands full enough.

On a fine August morning, after breakfast, Lady Emily
was sitting at the open drawing-room window before a little
table, on which lay her morning correspondence. One
letter seemed to interest her intensely, for she read and re-
read it, and finally sat still with it in her hand looking
absently across the park. Evidently it had given rise to
pleasant thoughts, for her lips wort a well-satisfied smile.
The letter in her hand was a closely-written sheet, delicately
scented, and headed by a coronet. It was from her school-
friend. Lady Adela Brydges, who had become the Mar-
chioness of Winterdyne in the autumn following her first
season in London, and the same month in which Lady
Emily had married William Ayre. They had kept up but a
slight correspondence since, but the letter just received was
warm and cordial, and contained a suggestion well-pleasing
indeed to Lady Emily. It ran thus : —

" I hear you h^^ve returned from Algiers, and that your
boy is perfectly restored to health. W^interdyne has been
hearing splendid accounts of him from the Eardleys, of
whom you saw so much abroad. He is anxious, for Mr

A New Ambition.

t6i

:asing

your
been
eys, of
or Mr

Ayre's sake, to see the young Squire. You know what an
almost romantic affection my husband had for yours in
their Oxford days. I have not forgotten our old friendship
either, and I write to ask if you and your son will pay us a
visit at the end of this month or early next. We are to be
very gay celebrating our little Sybil's eighteenth birthday.
My son attains his majority next March. Do they not
make us feel old? Sybil is her father's darling, and she is
a lovely child. What more natural than that your child
and mine should "forgather," as they say in Scotland?
Let us give them the chance ; of course, without a whisper
to either. I know Winterdyne would be pleased, and if
your son is at all like his father, I should give him Sybil
without a murmur, and be glad to see her so well married,
in the best sense of that trite phrase. Now, I will take no
excuse. I know you have been living in strict retirement,
but you have a duty now to your son. Since Winterdyne
heard so much of the young Squire from the Eardleys, he
has not let a day pass without speaking of you. Do gratify
us — for old times' sake. By the by, it will interest you to
know that your nephew and our Harry have been chums at
Sandhurst, and are now waiting the result of their final
exam. Brave young soldiers they will both make ; but,
ah ! the mother-heart quails, and could even pray that they
may never need to be more than fireside soldiers. It is
beautiful and brave, I think, of Mrs Geoffrey Ayre to be so
interested and pleased with her son's ambition, after her
terrible experiences. I fear I am less unselfish."

Lady Adela penned these words out of the simple fulness
of her heart, not dreaming how bitter a sting they con-
tuinea for the woman for whose eye they were inteilfled.
It took the edge from the keen satisfaction given by perusal
of the first page. In her passionate pride she told herself
that that plebeian boy, in whose veins ran only yeoman
blood, had no right to consort with such exclusive and
aristocratic people as the Winterdynes.

[dd

TJie Ayres of Studlcigh.

i« ■

In her own mind she l)itterly resented it, as another
instance of Mrs Geoffrey's self-assertion and presumption.
But what could she do ? At Stonecroft they were beyond
her jurisdiction. She had not the shadow of an excuse for
interfering or even passing a verdict on the woman's
conduct.

"What has h<. - le i this morning to make you look so
superlatively gra.^. , ;; ^er?" asked Will's voice in the
doorway. " If sue. a ti^^" .e: vvere not beyond the bounds
of possibility I should say yoj had got an account exceed-
ing your gloomiest expectations."

" Come here, Will. Where are you going ? Have you
been for your ride ? "

" No, just going," he answered, and sauntered into the
room, a tall, slim figure, well proportioned, but too slender
to be manly ; the pale, fair face winning and even striking
in its way, because of it' delicate refinement. He took off
his riding cap as he advanced to his mother, and the bright
golden hair lay in soft waves on the white brow where
every blue vein was visible. A handsome fellow in his
way was young Will, but as she looked at him the mother's
heart ached. There was something lacking, that indefin-
able suggestion of physical power, held in reserve, which is
the glorious heritage of young manhood. The Squire was
well, but would never be strong, never be that ideal country
Squire whose limbs know no weariness, and whose endur-
ance has no limit.

" Can you spare me a moment. Will ? I have an
important letter this morning from a very old friend of
whom you have heard me speak— Adela, Marchioness of
Winterdyne."

" Yes, of course, I know of her. Mrs Eardley and Amy
spoke of her a great deal in Algiers. Whot does she say?"

"Sends an invitation for us to Winterdyne for next
month. I am very anxious to accept it."
" Are you, mother ? "

/] .Vd'Ti' Ambition,

16;

Will looked genuinely surprised as he asked the question.
His mother had so long held herself aloof from society of
every kind that invitations now came but rarely to Studleigh,
and these were invariably refused.

"Yes, Lady Adela is my very old and dear friend. She
asks us to come in time for the celebration of her daughter's
birthday on the fifth of September."

" I've heard Clem speak of them," said Will, carelessly.
"He is very intimate with Lord Raybourne — Harry, as
he familiarly calls him. I believe Lady Sybil is a lo*c;y

girl."

"Lady Winterdyne mentions your cousin in her '"tte- s
having some slight acquaintance with Lord Raybo'^n^ 0\
course it is impossible that they can be intimate, the ' ^h no
doubt your cousins have led you and others to believe it.
Will you go with me, then, at the end of the moii . '

" If you wish it, mother. I am very glad to think you
will enjoy a little society again. I have long thought we
live too quietly here," answered Will.

" If you thought so you ought to have spoken. You are
master of Studleigh now," his mother said a little stiffly.

" Yes, but it is your comfort and your wishes I have to
study, mother," Will answered, affectionately, and the
gravity in her face melted into a lovely smile. There were
moments when she was all a mother should be, tender,
watchful, considerate, regardless of self. These moments,
though rare, had bound the cords of her boy's heart to her
ill indissoluble bonds.

" It will be glorious to see you take your place in the
world again," he said, looking on her beautiful face with all
a son's pride. " Do you know, mother, nobody would even
imagine that I could have the presumption to be your son.
You look so young."

"You are a foolish boy, Will, and think too much of
your middle-aged mother," she answered, chidingly, and yet
with a deepening satisfaction on her face. It was the very

1 fjr

1 68

T/u' Ayres of Studteigh.

wine of life to her to hear such words from the h'ps of
the boy for whom she would have laid down her life, wlio
was the only being on earth in whom her whole hope and
ambition were centred.

" I wonder should I tell you what hopes I was building
on this visit when you came in," she said impulsively.
" The day must come, Will, when I shall abdicate in favour
of a younger and fairer mistress of Studleigh. I wonder
how far distant that day is."

Will never spoke, but she wondered to see the flush rise
to his face till it dyed it red.

" There is time enough, mother, unless you are tired
housekeeping for me. I am in no hurry to make a
change," he answered b'ghtly.

" It is always well to keep such possibilities in view ;
then there is no disappointment, but a calm preparedness
for the inevitable," she answered, smiling still. " I am not
one of those mothers who elect to feel themselves aggrieved
when another woman supplants her in her son's heart.
When the time comes I shall abdicate gracefully, I promise
you."

" I question, mother, if in our case that day ever comes,"
Will answered, gravely, and with a touch of sadness.

"Why not?" she cried, jealously. "Why should you
differ from other men ? I hope to live to see a gracious,
queenly woman your wife, and a troop of happy children in
Studleigh."

But Will still only shook his head.

" We cannot tell what may come out of this visit. Will.
You have seen so few attractive girls. When you are
thrown in the way of a young and lovely creature like Sybil
Rayne, who knows but the issue may be of the happiest?
That would satisfy my highest ambition for you. Will. The
Winterdynes belong to one of our best families."

Still Will only shook his head.

" Don't build castles in the air for me, mother, or set up

A New Ambition.

l6g

ambitions which will never be fulfilled. T doubt you vvill
need to be content with a bachelor Squire of Studleigh."

" Why ? Will you never marry ? "

" I cannot say. But unless my opinions on certain sub-
jects should undergo some radical change, it is not likely."

" Have you pledged yourself to celibacy ? "

" Not solemnly ; but I believe it would be wise for me
not to marry. But this is too serious a discussion for a
summer morning, with a west wind blowing, which is t'.e
very elixir of life. I must go."

"Where do you ride this morning? "

"To Stonecroft," he answered, and was quick to note
the instant change on his mother's face.

"The second time in a week you have spent a day there.
I have room to be jealous, Will."

" Jealous of whom, mother ? I have seen so little of
Clem for years ; and if report speaks truly, he may soon be
far enough from us all."

" What report ? "

"There is rumour of disturbance at the Cape, and Clem
is eager to be off to active service."

" The best thing for him. It is only by his own effort
he can rise to any position."

" Oh, I don't think so. There's no end of people inter-
ested in him. You have no idea, mother, what kind of a
fellow Clem is. He conquers everybody ; he has such a
grand, strong, masterful way, and yet he is as tender as a
woman. Then he is as handsome as Adonis."

" He has a most generous champion in you," said Lady
Emily, drily.

" He doesn't need any champion, I assure you. Never
was any fellow more capable of standing on his own legs
than Clement Ayre," responded Will, shortly. " Mother,
when we go to Winterdyne, will you pay Aunt Rachel a
visit at Stonecroft ? You know it is in the next parish.
I wish you would, for my sake."

I/O

The Ayres of SttidUigh.

Lady Emily shook her head.

" I shall make no promises, Will. Your Aunt Rachel
has won you completely, and can turn you round her little
finger, that is (juite evident. But I do not see with your
eyes, and I cannot quite forget the past."

"Mother, it seems to me that you exaggerate something
in the past. It never appears to me to he a dreadful thing
that Uncle Geoff should have fallen in love with Aunt
Rachel. She is so beautiful and so good. If you only
knew her, mother, I am sure you would change your
opinion. I think her one of the most perfect women I
have ever seen ; perfect in every relation of her life." His
enthusiasm for the aunt he so dearly loved was not well-
timed. It fell like molten lead in his mother's ears, and
awakened anew in her breast the bitterness of the past.

" It is to her advantage to act this perfection before
you. Will," she answered, in her most icy manner. " My
experience of the woman your Uncle Geoffrey was un-
fortunate enough to marry has been that she is a designing,
presumptuous, and self-assertive person, perfectly able to
hold her own ground. I knew her before there was any
talk of her marriage, and formed an opinion then which I
have never had occasion to change. It is better when we
do not discuss these relatives. Will, but I assure you your
open disregard of my feelings and wishes regarding your
intimacy with them has occasioned me the deepest mortifi-
i ation and disappointment."

'^^■^^■4trt^^:rrz^]'''- d

&(7

CHAPTER XX.

A HAPPY HOUSEHOLD.

OTHER, I'm perfectly wild with joy."
m. *' You look it, Clem. Remember your years

Cm^^^P and your dignity, boy, and behave with some
decorum."

"He can't, mother, just let him alone," Evy put in
with a laugh, as the stalwart young soldier swung him-
self from the ground to a drooping branch of a hoary
old oak which sheltered the north gable of the house at
Stonecroft.

" Coming up, Evy ? " , 3 jolly and sheltered. Just give
me your hand, and I'll swing you up in a trice."

** No, thank you, mother and I will admire you from a
respectful distance. It is quite evident that you need
active service."

" And I'll have it too, soon, I hope," cried Clem, as he
dropped to the ground again.

'* I wonder what news for Harry this morning. I hope
he hasn't got a disappointment."

" He will come and tell us, surely," said Rachel Ayre, as
she leaned against the trunk of the old oak, and look-id
across the sunny old garden to where the river leaped and
rippled in the golden glow of the morning.

■'t ; r

172

TJie Ay res of Stiidleigh.

v w

< Come here, Evy, till I talk sense to you," said Clcni,
*.easing]y, and throwing his arm around his sister, he made
her saunter across the lawn, and the mother, looking on,
thanked God in her own heart for these two, who liad
never, since they were old enough to understand her
gentle guiding, occasioned her a moment's anxiety or pain.
They were a goodly pair — tlie tall, splendidly-built young
soldier, with firm, square shoulders, and open, honest,
handsome face, and the fair, lovely girl, with face as sweet
as an opening rose, and ripples of soft hair, which gleamed
in the sun, like living gold.

They were very unlike each other ; none would have
imagined them brother and sister, but they were fondly
attached to each other, with a love passing that which
usually binds brother and sister together. Yes, in her
children Geoffrey Ayre's widow was rich indeed, and the
tranquil happiness of her life, chastened only by memories
which time had mellowed, had kept her face so young and
sweet that, save for her hair, now nearly white, she might
almost have passed for their elder sister. Their relations
to each other were very perfect. The young soldier's
passionate love for his beautiful mother had in it a touch
of a lover's adoration. She had given them a beautiful
childhood, full of blessed memories, and now, when they
stood on the threshold of life, ready for its duties and r(3-
sponsibilities, she felt no misgivings except the natural
anxieties which must fill a mother's heart at such a time.
She saw in the boy the restless, eager spirit of his father —
the energy and indomitable will which are such valuable
qualities in young manhood, but tempered by a high sense
of duty and an unselfishness of disposition, to foster which
had been her greatest care. Well they repaid her toil ;
and, as she looked with a natural and exquisite pride upon
them, she asked that God would continue to guide them in
the future as in the past.

"Mother, impress upon Evy that she must be more

A Happy Household.

173

respectful to Lieutenant Ayre than she has hitherto been to
the Sandhurst cadet," he cried, looking over his shoulder,
and the two words, " Lieutenant Ayre," awakened a strange
thrill in Rachel's heart. As Lieutenant Ayre her beloved
had wooed her, and the undying memories of that far-off
time brought such a mist before her eyes, that she was
impelled for a moment to turn her head away.

" Mother, I never heard anybody talk more utter non-
sense than our Clem," Evy made answer. "I wish you
could learn some lessons of self-control and good manners
from Will."

" Ay, poor Will."

Clem's voice lost its bantering tone, and the laughter
died out of his eyes. The relationship between the two
cousins was a peculiar one— Clem's affections being
mingled with a vast compassion, which Lady Emily
would have indignantly resented had she known of its
existence.

"You must let me go, Clem, because I have letters to
write for mother, and it is just half an hour till the bag
leaves. You will never do a bit of good in this world,
Clem, you are so incorrigibly idle and teasing."

" Oh, this is too much, after I have just come out of that
wretched exam, with flying colours. Wait till Harry comes,
my lady, and you'll eat humble pie."

Evy was off, but not before Clem saw the bright, beauti-
ful blush on her fiice, which sent him back to his mother
with a very queer expression in his eyes.

" Mother, a penny for your thoughts : mine are worth a
guinea. Will you buy ? "

*'No, I demand them as my right," Rachel answered,
with a smile.

" Well, can you guess a great secret, and then keep it ?
It 's about Evy "

" What about her ? "

" It will surprise you very much,"

174

The Ayres of Stndleigh.

" Perhaps not."

"I'll bet on it. Oh, but you don't bet," laughed Clem.
" Well, I'll tell you what, I've just discovered, mother,
Ray bourne's friendliness for me is a huge fraud."

" How do you make that out ? "

" Because it 's Evy he comes to see, I verily believe. Oli,
the deceiver ! Won't I pitch into him next time he comes.
You don't look one bit surprised."

"I'm not. I'm Evy's mother, Clem."

"A motherly old hen, who watches her chicks well,"
said Clem, affectionately. " Do you approve of Harry,
then ? "

" I approve of him very much, Clem ; b'lt I am in some
doubt how to act. Do you think Lord and Lady Winter-
dyne would think an obscure little girl like our Evy a fit
match for the future Marquis."

" I don't see why. They are very friendly, and they
nuist see well enough what is going on," said Clem, soberly.
" Mother, it would be abominable if it came to anything,
and then they were disagreeable. Do you think there is
any chance of it."

" I cannot say. Friendship fs one thing, alliance by
mauiage another. I have sometimes regretted your in-
timacy with Raybourne, especially since he began to
come so much here. Evy is just at an impressiona])le
age, and she has seen so little of the world that naturally
she is flattered by the attentions of your delightful
chum."

"Now, mother, it's too bad 'rying to put the responsi
bility on me," said Clem, gravely, but with a twinkle
in his eye. "And don't pretend that Evy has no
hand in it. Why, she's pretty enough to turn the heads
of ten lords, though I must say she is outspoken enough
to startle anybody. Don't look grieved and concerned,
mother. I want everybody to feel as jolly as I do this
morning."

A Happy HouseJiold.

175
It means that

"Your success has another side, Clem.
1 may make ready to let you go."

'' Why, yes. Wouldn't you despise me, now, if I didn't
long for active service? You wouldn't like me to be a lout
content to smoke a pipe and read a novel under the oak
all day long ? "

" I wouldn't have you one bit different, my son,"
Rachel admitted, with a sudden gleam of pride in her
gentle eyes.

"Thank you, mother. I'm not all I should be, but I try
to remember what you woul«_ like me to be. I wonder if
it 's a sin to hope that the disturbance at the Cape may go
on, and that Harry and I may be lucky enough to be sent
out? It will be frightfully slow if we are just stationed at
some wretched military quarters, and mace to play at
soldiering till we are grey."

Rachel could not but laugh at the young man's expres-
sion of deep disgust.

" Well, it is part of a soldier's duty to accept whatever
comes in the best possible spirit," she answered. " Why,
here is Will."

" So it is. Will 's a decent chaj), mother. He'll rejoice
iinfeignedly over my good luck," said Clem, and took a
long stride across the lawn to meet his cousin as he rode
up the approach.

" Morning, Will. Congratulate me, old fellow. Yes,
It's all right, and — Lieutenant Ayre at your service."

He stood up straight and gave the gniceful military
salute which he had learned, first in babyhood in the
verandah of an Indian bungalow. It seemed strange to
Rachel, looking back, to think that nearly four-and-
twenty years had elapsed since these sacred, never-to-l)e-
forgotten days.

"I'm so awfully glad, Clem. But I knew it was
all right. We are not a bit surprised, are we, Aunt
Rachel ? "

iy6

TJie Ay res of Studlcigh.

\%y\

" Perhaps not, dear boy. I have just been trying to
curb this unruly spirit," said Rachel, as she advanced to
welcome him. He is burning for glory, Will, Who
knows, he may have a surfeit of it before he is much
older."

" He is the stuff heroes are made of," said Will, ad-
miringly, and how has Raybourne done ? Have you
heard ? "

" Not yet, but I think he 's all right," answered Clem.
" I'll be awfully disappointed if he isn't, because he knows
his work better than I do. Shall I tell Evy Will has
come ? "

Rachel nodded, and Clem departed into the house. " I
am glad you have come, Will. I have been feeling ^!»e
need of some one to understand how / feel," Rachel said,
turning to her nephew with brimming eyes. Is it not
strange how I rely upon you ? I feel to you just as I felt
towards your father, dear. You are more like my brother
than my nephew."

" Dear Aunt Rachel, I am thankful that I am of any use
oi comfort to you," Will answered ' quickly and gratefully,
and pressed the soft han ^ which ■ ■ i in his.

" Yes, I know. Clem sees omy the sunny side of the
picture. He thinks only of the glory and the excitement of
war. /have known its horrors. Women view these things
differently, of course ; it is their nature to shrink from
whatever causes sorrow or suffering. My feelings arc
strangely mingled, Will. I am proud of my boy ; glad he
will be an ornament to the profession his father so loved,
and yet "

"Dear Ai nt Rachel, don't vex yourself needlessly. It
iijay be years before there is another war, and the awful
expciu nee you had cr.i at least never be repeated."

'*v;o(l forbid that it should," replied Rachel, with a
r.huciuer.

•' But i must not cloud this bright day with my sad fore-

A Happy Household.

177

id
a

bodings and sadder memories. How glad it makes mc
to see you look so well, Will. I think you are much
better."

" I feel quite well, just like a different man, auntie, and
though I may seem ungrateful for my own blessings, I
would give much to be in Clem's shoes."

''You have other work to do, and you are doing it nobly.
You are a worthy son of a worthy father, Will. I hear that
on every hand."

" I try to do what I think he would have done had he
lived, Aunt Rachel. I have always wished to tei' you of
some papers of his I read after I came home iiyjva Algiers.
Mr Gillot gave them to me. He had them in cbar ice
my father died. They contained a great many .. and
directions about the estate, and a letter to me ' - b-
when I came of age. I can never hope to be \^
man as he was, Aunt Rachel."

"Oh, you will be, you are now. Will," ^^he ans^^ >^ '
a reassuring smile. " I hope your mothc is quite **

" Quite well, thank you. Oh, we are asked to VVi.jt<ir-
dyne for next month. Aunt Rachel."

"Indeed, and will Lady Emily go? She has long given
up society."

"Yes; but she is most anxious to accept this invi* ion,
so in a few weeks I shall not have to ride so far to sec
you."

"That will be pleasant," Rachel answered, but said no
more. " They are to have a large house party i Winter-
dyne," she said, after a slight pause. " I am anticipating
the great pleasure of seeing my old friends Sir Randal and
Lady Vane. She is godmother to Sybil, and Lady Winter-
dyne has induced them to come for the celebration, cben
they are to come to me for a fews days later on."
"They must be very old now."

«' Yes — but Lady Vane is as energetic as ever. You will
^njoy meeting thein. They loved your father dearly.

jy^mr

|ii-=i

'^^r

178

T/ie Ay res of Stualeigh.

Why, Will, more visitors ; Lady Winterdyne and her son :
Clem's anxiety will be relieved at last."

With that perfect self-possession which marked her in-
bred refinement, Rachel advanced to meet her distinguished
guests. Lady Winterdyne was driving her son m a rustic
cart, but she gave him the reins, and held out both her
hands to Mrs Ayre.

" Have we to congratulate each other, dear Mrs Ayre ?
Harry has done v/ell, and he wouid give me no peace till I
drove him over. Is Lieutenant Ayre in the house ? "

"Yes; I congratulate you, Lady Winterdyne, and you,
Lord Raybourne," said Rachel, heartily. " May I present
my nephew, William Ayre of Studleigh, or have you already
met him ? "

" No, ho'v delightful this is. I wrote to your mother
yesterday, Mr Ayre. How I wish Lord Winterdyne had
been with m-:. Why, where has Kari^^ gone?"

" Into the house, I fancy. Clem is teasing his sister in
the drawing-roort!. Will you come in for a few minutes,
Lady Winterdyne ? "

" Yes, certainly. Did you say your mother had received
my letter, Mr Ayre ? "

"Yes, and we hope to have the pleasure of accepting
your kind invitation, Lady Winterdyne."

"Ah, that is as it should be. We hear so much of
you from the Eardleys. Pray don't trouble, Mrs Ayre,
my ponies aie iiicflels of good behaviour. What a sweet
woman your aunt is, Mr Ayre. \ love her very much."

"She is, I think her one among a thousand.'"

"And your cousins, too, they are charming. Evy is as
lovely as an angel. We shall have gay doings next month,
in which all you young people, I hope, will have a share.
Surel' your mother does not often come to Stonecroft ? "

" No, Lady Winterdyne," Will answered, with a look of
pain, which somewhat puzzled the kindly, gracious woman
by his sidg. The Winterdynes did not spend much of their

A Happy Household. 179

time at the family seat, and th- Ayres of Studleigh had
long lived so absolutely out of the world that their affliirs
were only talked of in their own neighbourhood. Lady
Winterdyne had therefore never heard anything of the
strained relations between the two families. But ere the
autumn closed, her eyes were opened.

HimHiimi

III

i:;

CHAPTER XXI.

IN BITTERNESS OF SOUL.

^ADY ADELA BRYDGES had been a somewhat
J giddy, frivolous girl in her first season when she
married a middle-aged Marquis of Winterdyne.
It was a marriage which astonished not a few,
and there were many predictions that it would not prove a
ouccess- predictions which, however, were never fulfilled,
for as the years went on, the two, who had married for love,
became dearer to each other. Lord Winterdyne was a man
of singularly noble character, with high aims above all the
prejudices which sometimes mar the character of those in
high places. His nature was rather reserved than open.
Many called him proud and haughty, but in his family
circle and among his intimate friends he was greatly be-
loved. He was a keen politician, and one eminently fitted
to be a leader of men. His judgment was matured and
reliable, and his opinions carried weight even among his
opponents. He was a man on whom his party absolutely
relied, and to whom his compeers looked for guidance and
example. His wife was his companion and helpmeet in all
things, and with her happy spirit and light-hearted ways
lent the necessary brightness to his home. She received
Lady Emily Ay re with affectionate cordiality, and the

In Bitterness of Soul.

l8i

Marquis grjeted the son of his old friend with marked
pleasure. There were three children ut Winterdyne, two
sons and one daughter — the blue-eyed, saucy Sybil, on
whom Lady Emily's ambition for her boy was centred.
The Ayres drove the distance from Studleigh, and arrived
shortly before dinner, so that it was not until they went
down to the drawing-room, a few mniutes before eight,
that they were introduced to the young people. Lord
Raybourne and Will were already acquainted. Lady
Emily looked at him with but a passing interest, her
whole attention being given to Sybil, a bright-faced,
happy-hearted girl, with no nonsense or affectation about
her.

" I am indeed delighted to meet once more one of whom
my wife has talked so often," said Lord Winterdyne, in his
somewhat dignified way. "Come, Sybil, and greet your
mother's old friend/'

Sybil looked with open admiration at the queenly figure
as she lifted up her face to give the kiss of greeting. Lady
Emily's unwonted tears rose at the young girl's graceful
action, and she turned somewhat hurriedly to her son. " I
fear you will find that I have somewhat forgotten the usages
of polite society, my dear," she said, with that grace which
none could make more winning. "Come, Will, and do
duty for your mother."

"Oh, Mr Ayre and I have met before at Stonecroft,
Lady Ayre," cried Sybil, gaily. " I don't think we feel at
all strange to each other."

'' I thought of asking Mrs Geoffrey Ayre to dine with us
to-night, Emily," said Lady Winterdyne, entering at the
moment. " But again I thought we should have a great
deal to say to each other. Where is Norman ? He is an
incorrigible boy, always late."

" I saw him, mamma, about an hour ago from my
dressing-room window wading into the lake after some sort
of water-plant which has come into flower out of season,"

111

■■"

182

TJic Ay res of Studleigh.

said Sybil. " I am afraid he will have forgotten all about
dinner."

" He often docs," said the mother, with an indulgent
smile. " My Benjamin is a curious boy, Emily. I don't
know from whom he inherits the tastes of a naturalist, but
he has a museum in the old picture gallery which would
amuse you. He is so utterly happy among his toads and
fishes that we are glad to leave him in peace."

At the dinner-table that night Will was amazed at his
mother. She looked so beautiful and so gracious, and her
conversation was so brilliant and fascinating that all were
enchanted with her. She was in her element, and felt
suri)rised to find how pleasant it was to meet once more
with congenial and delightful society.

'' I begin to think, Adela, that I have made a mistake
living in retirement so long," said Lady Emily, when she
was alone with b'^r friend in the drawing-room after dinner.

The young people were out on the terrace, they saw
Sybil's white gown glancing among the trees, and the bright
scarlet of Raybcurne's coat.

" How do you mean ? " asked. Lady Winterdyne, as she
leaned back in her lounging-chair and sipped her coffee.

"I know to-night how much I have missed. What a
delightful life you must have."

" I am very happy. Winterdyne is devoted to me, and
my children are as good as gold. The only cloud on my
sky at present is that Harry will talk on as if war were the
most desirable event in the world. He and Clement Ayre
are absolutely agreed on the subject of their profession."

" Is it not rather a disappointment to you and Lord
Winterdyne that your eldest son should have chosen the
army ? "

" It was at first, but we soon saw it was no use trying to
force his inclinations. Why, Harry has played at soldiers,
and drilled Sybil and Norman, since his babyhood. I really
don't know, Emily, who is to fill the father's shoes. Norman

In Bitterness of Soul.

IS.^

Lord
^n the

'ing to

bids fair to he a naturalist and a scholar, and there is not a
politician in the family. Our only hope must be in the son-
in-law to be ; and about whom we are in a doubtful state of
uncertainty."

"Your daughter has had no suitors, then ?" asked Lady
Emily, with interest.

" Oh, suitors in plenty ; but she seems to favour none.
I believe she is fancy free. I admire your son very much.
His manners are perfect."

" He has been the best of sons to me, Adela," Lady
Emily replied, with strange emotion. " It would make the
last years of my widowed life boundlessly happy if what you
spoke of should take place."

" I should be pleased. Frankly speaking, Sybil is so full
of nonsense, just as I was at her age, that it would be well
that she should marry a man of firm character and stability.
That, I am sure, your son possesses, in conjunction with a
singularly amiable disposition. Yes, it would be very
desirable, but we cannot control the destinies of our
children, even if it were desirable that we should."

Lady Emily looked very grave, and slightly shook hei
head.

" I sometimes think it might be better for some young
people if they were compelled to submit to the wise
decisions of their elders."

Then suddenly she sat forward and looked her friend
full in the face.

" Adela, tell me, are you really intimate with the family at
Stonecroft ? "

" Yes, the young people are inseparable — Clement and
Harry being such friends. Why do you look at me so,
Emily? Is there anything objectionable in such an
intimacy ? "

"Nothing objectionable, of course," Lady Emily an-
swered, significantly. "But I am surprised, very much
surprised— that is all,"

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184

T/te Ayres of Studlcigh.

"Tell me why."

" Tell me first what you think of Mrs Geoflfrcv,
Adda."

" I admire and love her. Winferdyne thinks her perfect.
Why do you ask ? '*

" You know, of course, who she was before she married
Captain Ay re."

" A daughter of one of your tenants, was she not ? hut a
very old family, and she is most refined. Yes, I have heard
the story, I think, but both you and I, Emily, know that
these old distinctions are fast breaking down ; in a word,
that the old order changeth."

"It is a pity and a shame, I think. I cannot bear this
levelling tendency. It threatens so much that we have
been taught to cherish," said Lady Emily, with a passion-
ate bitterness which amazed her friend.

" It depends on the view one takes," she said, good-
humouredly. "You must get into discussion with the
Marquis. He will astonish you. But to return to Stone-
croft. I thought that one of the greatest inducements I
could offer in my invitation was our proximity to your
friends. Have I made a mistake ? "

"Yes."

" I am very sorry for that. Your face tells me more
than your brief monosyllable. But you must be (juite
frank with me, Emily. It will prevent unpleasantness
while you are here. Have you and Mrs Geoffrey quar-
relled?"

Lady Emily's lip curled slightly.

" You do not know me very well when you ask such a
question. / never quarrel. We have only met three tinus
since Mr Ayre's death. I disapproved of the marriage
from the first, and never countenanced her afterwards.
We have had no quarrel, Adela, but we do not meet."

Lady Winterdyne sat silent for a little. She was griev
ously disappointed in the friend of her youth.

In Bitterness of Soul,

185

"Did you take this course simply because you thought
Captain Ayre was marrying beneath him ? "

** Yes ; I did not think her a desirable wife for him in
any respect."

" You had met : you knew something of her before,
then?"

" Yes, as much as I might know of any of my husband's
people."

" I am very much surprised, Emily ; I cannot understand
it."

" It does not touch you so nearly, Adcla. You, who
have never been so tried, must not blame me "

" I am quite disappointed, and I confess I do not well
know what to do. You would not refuse to meet Mrs
Geoffrey, I hope, because I have asked her to come while
you are here ? "

" I shall not forget what is due to yon, Adela, as my
hostess, even if you were not my friend," Lady Emily
replied, quietly.

"Fortunately I have only definitely invited them for
Sybil's fete. I must just leave the rest alone. I daresay
Mrs Ayre will understand. I remember now that she said
nothing at all when I spoke of you meeting here."

" Has she never complained of me to you?"

"Never. I think you are under some grave misappre-
hension regarding Mrs Geoffrey. I cannot believe that you
know her at all. How delightful if VVinderdyne should
be the birthplace of new and sweeter relations between
Studleigh and Stonecroft."

Lady Emily shook her head.

" Is my nephew really as fine a fellow as they say ? I
have not seen him since he was a schoolboy. And Will is
too absurdly enthusiastic over the whole family."

" He is a fine fellow, a little outspoken and independent,
perhaps, but he has a right to be, and his tender devotion
to his mother is one of the most beautiful things I have

ever seen.

»>

1 86

Ths Ayres of Studleigh.

"Are you not afraid, Adela, to encourage so much
intimacy between them and your own young people? Is
it wise ? "

" I leave these things to right themselves, Emily. I am
not one of the worldly-wise. I want my children, above all
things, to be happy, and their father agrees with my way of
thinking. Well, shall we go down ? I fancy I hear Sybil
singing."

" Is she musical ? "

"Moderately so. Her voice is sweet and tuneful.
Evelyn Ayre sings most exquisitely, and when her mother
plays her accompaniment, I assure you it is a musical treat
of no ordinary kind. Then her entire absence of conscious-
ness, or straining after effect, adds to its charm."

" I am afraid that, after all the gifts and graces of my
relatives at Stonecroft, you will find us rather tame, Adela,"
Lady Emily said, with a faint, ironical smile, which slightly
annoyed her hostess, and she led the way from the drawing-
room without a word.

The music-room was downstairs, adjoining the library,
and was a large, lofty room, with an exquisitely painted
roof, and quaint niches in the panelling of the walls,
which held statues of the great composers. The instru-
ments were of the finest, Lord Winterdyne himself being
an accomplished musician. It pleased Lady Emily well
to see Will close by Sybil at the piano, evidently deeply
interested in the fair musician. She thought, in the pride
of her heart, what a goodly pair they made ; a passionate
desire, which was almost a prayer, took possession of her,
and for a moment she was oblivious of the other occupants
of the room.

"This is my boy Norman," Lady Adela said, and a lank,
rather sallow-faced lad, in an Eton suit, came forward and
made a bow, then Lord Raybourne sprang up from the
lounge and the evening paper to give the ladies a seat.
The heir of Winterdyne was rather a common-place youth,

In Bitterness of SouL

187

with a square, manly figure, and a good-natured, though by
no means handsome face. There was something very
pleasant about him, however — a simple straightforwardness
and sincerity which at once made him a favourite.

" My son seems very much at home," Lady Emily said,
and her hostess marvelled to see the softening of her proud
face into tenderness as her deep eyes rested on the young
pair. "Will you not sing something else especially for me,
Sybil ? I may call you Sybil, I suppose, since I am so old
a friend of your dear mother."

"Oh, certainly. But Mr Ayre has promised to sing, and
we were looking for something to suit him. Perhaps he is
accustomed to your accompaniments, Lady Emily. Let me
resign my seat."

" Oh, no. I should like to hear you play. If you will
be so kind, I am sure Will will sing all the better," Lady
Emily said, and Sybil laughed at the frank compliment.

"Very well. Come, then, Mr Ayre, and you mustn't
knit your brows as papa does when I make mistakes."

Will sang well. His voice, a sweet, clear tenor, rang
through the room, and made Lord Winterdyne rise from
his desk in the library and set the door wide open, in order
that not a note might be lost.

So with music and song and happy talk the pleasant
evening wore away ; and when Lady Emily retired to her
dressing-room, she sat long over the fire brooding on past
memories and disappointments, from which, however, her
brilliant dreams for the future took the sting.

■t .

,1.

ill

CHAPTER XXII.

HOPES AND FEARS.

•HAT shall we do to-day ? " Sybil asked at
the breakfast table next morning.

" Drive to Stonecroft," responded Ray-
bourne, with a promptitude which brought
a curious twinkle to his sister's bright eye, but under her
brother's steady gaze she drooped them quickly, and a faint
colour rose in her face. Then Raybourne smiled a satisfied
smile and looked towards his mother.

" I should like to drive Will and Sybil in the dog-cart, if
you would take Lady Emily in the phaeton."

" We shall not go out this morning, Harry, dear," his
mother answered, quickly. After her long crive yester-
day, Lady Emily wants a rest. Shall you come back to
luncheon ? "

" It depends ; don't bind us, mother. I have such a lot
to say to Clem."

" Plotting against the nation's peace," laughed his mother,
but she was secretly at a loss what to do. She felt the
desire to offer an unstudied and generous hospitality to the
family at Stonecroft, but she was in duty bound to consider
her guest. She was quick to note the eagerness with which
young Will acceded to Raybourne's proposition, and con-

Hopes and Fears.

189

eluded that he was very far indeed from sharing his
mother's disHke of his kindred. She felt slightly vexed
with Lady Emily, and yet in a sense sorry for her. It was
perfectly evident that she was a woman who had tasted but
little of the brightness of life j it made it none the less
pathetic that it was in a great measure entirely her own
fault, and that she wilfully passed by the good she might
from day to day enjoy. Lady Winterdyne's pliilosophy, to
make the best of everything as it came, and extract as much
sunshine as possible even from gloomy days, was of a kind
unfathomable to her old friend. It was the bright, happy
woman's desire, already confided to her husband, to try
and convince Lady Emily of her mistake, and to induce
her to take a larger, sweeter, and more generous view of
life.

Winterdyne, looking on, watched the experiment with
admiring interest. Warned by his wife, he was careful to
make no allusion to Stonecroft ; but it was impossible to
keep young mouths silent, even if it had been advisable,
and Lady Adela foresaw that twenty times in every day her
guest would be compelled to listen to praise of the kindred
she abhorred. It was part of her punishment, which Lady
Adela may be forgiven for thinking was not quite unde-
served.

It was a very happy party which set out for the drive
across country an hour later. The young Squire was
already " Will " to Raybourne and his sister, and if Lady
Emily had been better versed in the ways of young people,
she would not altogether have approved the frank, confident,
sisterly demeanour of Sybil towards her son. It showed
her clearly that she was very much disposed to regard him
in a sisterly light, which is death to any nearer tie.

She looked very dainty and sweet in her tailor-made
gov.n and felt hat, with the fresh, keen wind blowing the
little rmglets about her bright face, and when Lady Emily
saw Will tucking the rugs about her with the greatest

I'l

190

The Ay res of Stiidleigh.

possible care, and the radiant smile with which she thanlccd
him, her heart swelled with the proudest hope wliich had
yet visited it. Oh, that fair creature would make a royal
mistress of Studleigh, and the lustre of her own rank would
sustain the prestige v hich Lady Emily imagined her title
had added to the ho'iour of the Ayres. She did not know
how they said in Ayrclcigh that luck had departed from
Studleigh since the very day its first titled mistress entered
it.

"They are a merry party. Just listen to Harry's sten-
torian laugh. What a great strong fellow he is. He will
deal destruction to the enemy who is unfortunate cnou<;h
to encounter his strong arm," said Lady Adcla, as the high-
stepping mare carried the dogcart splendidly down the
avenue.

"Yes, you have fine chil-''. n, Adela. You may thank
Heaven you have more tha ; " o," said her friend, with a
return of that bitterness she iiad exhibited on the previous
night.

" Why ? Your ewe lamb may be worth my trio," said
Lady Adela, with her happy laugh. "I do think, Emily,
you fret yourself needlessly over trifles, and leave all the
good of life untouched. Why, at your age, and in your
circumstances, you ought to be enjoying life to the full I
If all Winterdyne tells me about your husband is true, dear,
I cannot but think it would grieve him that you should be
so melancholy; and another thing — I am going to speak
quite plainly to you, it is not just nor kind to your boy.
You have saddened his early manhood- I see how
anxiously he looks at you always— have you never noticed
it yourself?"

" He cannot say but that I have devoted myself to him,"
cried Lady Emily, almost fiercely. " I have sacrificed my
whole life to him — no mother could do more."

" No. Your devotion has been very perfect, but I think
he has felt it weigh upon him. He does not wish you tu

Hopes and Fears.

191

sacrifice yourself. He would be far happier if he saw you
happier and enjoying life. You must stir yourself up for
his sake, and give him more latitude in every way. We
cannot curb youth too much, Emily, or it becomes a narrow,
stunted existeiire, barren of usefulness or happiness. Leave
your boy alone. Let him choose his friends, let him love
his cousins if he chooses, and I repeat it, they are worthy of
his love. I could not bear to sec how he looked at you
this morning when Harry spoke of Stonecroft."

"You are not afraid to speak, Adela," said her guest,
with a strange smile.

"No, why should I be? We are not acquaintances of
yesterday. We are in a sense women of the world, Emily,
and the world's wisdom, to keep away from anything higher,
bids us accept the inevitable with unaltered faces. Hut let
us leave that sore subject for a pleasanter one. Sir Randal
and his energetic wife will be here to-night. You will be
pleased to meet them again."

"Yes, but Aunt Lucy will take sides with you, Adela,
and I shall be nowhere."

" Winterdyne will tell you that it is always the duty of
the minority to surrender gracefully. It is a favourite re-
mark of his that were that sensible rule acted on in the
house there would not be such a disgraceful waste of
valuable time," said Lady Adela, with one of her winning
smiles. " Emily, I am going to make you amiable and
lovely in disposition, as so beautiful a woman ought to be ;
and I always have my own way."

It was a fine winter morning. A hard frost held the
earth in a band of iron, and had frozen all waters except
swift-running rivers and the noisiest of brooks. The keen
air was exhilarating and delightful, and brought the rich
glow to the faces of the young people as they drove rapidly
over the hill to Stonecroft. When they arrived at that
comfortable family house they found no one at home but
Mrs Ayre, who received them in that fine, unaffected,

192

The Ay res of Studkigh.

i''

i!"

genuine way which won all hearts so readily. There was
something very pretty in Sybil's manner towards her, a
caressing deference, which to a close observer might have
seemed something like an appeal. They were warm friends,
both possessing that perfect naturalness which is an irre-
sistible charm.

"All alone, Mrs Ayre; and where is Clem at this hour
of the morning?" asked Raybourne, making no secret of
his disappointment. ** It would be like my luck if they
should have gone away somewhere to si)end the day."

" Oh, no, Clem only took his sister over to the lake,"
Rachel answered, with a smile.

"Oh, that's all right. I'll go and hunt them up. Are
you coming, Sybil ? "

" No, no, Harry, your sister is quite chilled. She must
warm her fingers here," protested Mrs Ayre, but Sybil as-
sured her she felt no cold, and seemed so eager for the
walk to the lake that Rachel said no more.

The grounds about Stonecroft, though not extensive,
could boast of a large and picturesque lake, which had
been the delight of Clement and Evelyn, summer and
winter, since they changed their home. Indeed, the lake
had nearly reconciled them to leaving Pine Edge.

" I am sure you like Raybourne and his sister, Will,"
Rachel said, when she was left alone with her nephew.
" They are so simple and kindly, thanks to their mother's
fine training."

" I like all the family. Aunt Rachel," said Will, heartily,
and yet with a curious gravity. " I had really no idea that
you were so intimate with them. Am I not right in sup-
posing that there is a greater attraction here for Harry than
his friendship for Clem ? "

" I cannot tell. Will, dear ; sometimes I hope not."

"Why, Aunt Rachel?"

" Because I would not wish my daughter to suffer as I
have suffered," Rachel replied, with unwonted intensity.

Hopes and Fears.

193

"And I know very well my fortuneless Evelyn could be
considered no match for Lord Winterdyne's heir."

" You are wrong, Aunt Rachel. Kvelyn is fit to rank
with the highest and best in the land," Will retorted, and
the flush rose high to his brow as he uttered these passionate
words. His aunt looked at him with mild surprise, but never
for a moment did a suspicion of the truth dawn upon her.

"You and I, out of our love for T^vy, think her so, per-
haps," she admitted with a smile. " Hut the world will
have another verdict. Of late, Will, I have been visited by
strange and sad previsions of coming troui)le. I cannot rid
myself of them. Oh, my boy, it will be fearfully hard if
I have to give up my son, as I had to give up his father.
Pray that the sacrifice may not be required of me."

•* Do not needlessly disi.ess yourself. Aunt Rachel.
There is no immediate prospect of war."

Rachel shook her head.

"The news from the Cape is not very reassuring. It
would be amusing if it were not so terribly real to see the
eagerness with which Clem and I look the Cape telegrams
every morning. It is true that Sir liartle Frere has written
for reinforcements ; and I heard from Major Cartwright
yesterday that there is a rumour that troops are to go out
at once."

Will regarded his aunt with compassionate sympathy, but
could think of nothing to say.

" It seems a pity that Clem should be so eager, and yet
when I look at him. Aunt Rachel, I do not wonder," said
Will, with a slight, sad smile. " It would be impossible for
the embodiment of such splendid manhood to be content
quietly at home. His fine energies must have scope, and
I feel sure we shall have another soldier hero to add to the
honours of Studleigh. But he must be careful of himself
for all our sakes. Have you ever thought, Aunt Rachel,
how very slender a barrier there is between him and the
old place ? "

I *

194

The Ay res of StiidUigh.

He smiled still as he asked the question ; hut the tears
rose in Karhel's eyes.

"Will, don't suggest that. We cannot hear it! Stud
leigh cannot spare you, nor can we. Never, never hint at
such a thing again."

"It is true, Aunt Rachel; though, if it pains you, I will
not speak of it," he answered. '* / know just how iiiuch
my life is worth ; nor am I deceived l)y this spell of good
health, though I am thankful for it."

Rachel for a moment could not speak.

" Hush, hush, Will. You have grown morbid ahout
yourself. You have outgrown your weakness, and look
nearly as strong as Clem. Is there nobody at WitnerdyiiL-,"
she asked, in gentle banter, " who could temi)t you to take
home a sweet mistress to the old place ? "

Again the red flush rose high to the young man's brow.

" Not at Winterdyne, Aunt Rachel, no, nor perhaps any
where else. I know that my father regretted his marriage,
that he lived to change his mind on certain points. 1
believe with him that it is not only weak but wrong for a
man with a feeble constitution like mine to burden others
with it. No, Aunt Rachel, my feeble health will go down
to the grave with me, and another race will ri.se and blossom
into a goodly tree. You will live to see Clem's sons and
daughters in the old place. Aunt Rachel, and though I am
away I shall not be forgotten."

" Oh, Will, you will break my heart."

" Why, Aunt Rachel, you have always been strong to
face what must be, and there is no one else to whom 1 can
speak. But you will not fret about me. I am neither
morbid, gloomy, nor unhappy ; on the contrary, I mean my
life, whether it be long or short, to be very bright."

He turned away from her for a moment and stood look-
ing across the little park to the thick belt of dark pines
that skirted the shore of the lake. As he looked a curious
expression came on his face, a look of absolute pain. There

tlof^es and Fears.

195

were moments, unrcvealcd, when he rebelled a.c;nin.st the
hardness of his destiny, when his maniiood cried out for
the joys which blessed the lives of others. Not always
could even that unselfish soul keep self in tlu- background.
It was only for a moment, then he turned and beckoned to
his aunt with a sunny smile on his face.

"Come here. Aunt Rachel, is not this a picture?"
Across the little park came two couples sauntering
leisurely, Clem in front, bending from his great height to
look with undisguised tenderness into the bright, bonnie
face of the Lady Sybil, Raybourne behind, with Evelyn's
hand within his arm.

"That is as it should be, is it not?" Will asked, with a
quizzical look into his aunt's bewildered face. " It can't be
prevented now, and nobody can say but that they look as
if made for each other."

^:i-
i «'

'It

CHAPTER XXIII.

SYBILS FETE.

ADY WINTERDYNE was an accomplished entcr-
<) tainer. The family mansion in Portman Square
was, during the season, distinguished for the mag-
nificence and lavishness of its hospitality. Hither-
to the brief visits paid to Winterdyne had been seasons of
quiet and retirement. For the first time for many years
the spacious reception rooms were thrown open, the lofty
ballroom decorated and made ready for the gay throng who
were to dance in honour of Sybil's birthday. Every invita-
tion had been promptly accepted, the house itself was full
of guests, and the genial hostess was in her element. But
in the morning of the auspicious day a slight cloud fell
upon that happy household — the Com.pany of the 5th
Battalion to which Raybourne and Clement Ayre had been
gazetted, was ordered to Natal. Although the news was
welcome to the young soldier, he could have wished his
marching order had not come to spoil his sister's birthday.
As yet, however, the news from the Cape was not of an
alarming nature. It was thought at home that Lord
Chelmsford's well-drilled regiments would speedily quel!
Cetewayo and his rude hordes, the numbers of his army

Sybils Fete.

197

and the nature of his warfare not being understood in
England.

It was looked upon, therefore, as rather child's play,
which, while it might give the young men a taste of real
soldiering, could not possibly have any serious results.
Only old Sir Randal shook his head. He knew nothing of
the Kafir or the Zulu, but his Indian experiences had made
him suspicious of all native revolt, and he often said there
was greater folly in underrating than in overrating the risks
attending such civil wars. When he saw, however, that the
Winterdynes were not disposed to regard the matter
seriously, he held his peace, although he felt impatient to
see his old friend, Rachel Ayre, and to learn from her own
lips whether her past experience had not made her wise
and cautious where such matters were concerned.

A beautiful vision was the Lady Sybil when she came
uo-.vn to the ballroom that evening ready to receive her
guests. She wore her presentation gown, and, shorn of its
train, the white satin and eucharist lilies blended in a
lovely mass, with lace like a spider's web, made a fitting
and exquisite robe for her young loveliness. A slight
pensiveness, born of the parting shadow, only added to her
beauty. She was the admired of all as she moved about
among them receiving congratulations and exchanging
greetings. In a quiet corner Lady Emily watched the
arrival of the guests : but her eyes seldom wandered far
from the fair face of the child of the house. She was com-
pletely won by that sweet grace, and the desire to call her
daughter had become a most passionate longing, beside
which everything else seemed of small account.

" I cannot think what can be keeping the Ayres,
mamma," Sybil said, v;hen an opportunity occurred for a
word with her mother. " I hope the news of the marching
order, as Harry calls it, has not made dear Mrs Ayre feel
too ill to come."
" I hope not, dear. Don't look so disappointed. A

t98

The Ayres of Studleigh.

message would have been sent had they not ititended
coming. Oh, there they are ! Look, Lady Emily, how
eager Harry and your nephew are to exchange congratula-
tions. Ah well, ah well, they are young, and ' glory waits
them,' as we may say. Excuse me for a moment."

Lady Emily was left alone in her retreat, and with an
eagerness for which she despised herself leaned forward to
see the late arrivals come in. There was more than
curiosity in that look — there was an intensity of interest
which was almost apprehensive as her eyes caught once
more the face of the woman who in so many ways had sup-
planted her. Many eyes beside those of the Lady Emily
looked with deep interest on that graceful figure in its rich
and sweeping robe of shimmering satin, at the noble and
striking face from which the bloom of youth had scarcely
faded, though it was framed in hair like snow. She
entered the room on her son's arm, while at her other side
walked her young daughter, whose loveliness was of a more
rare and stately kind than that of Lady Sybil.

As Lady Emily saw that trio, and marked the cordial
and impressive greetings bestowed upon them, ay, by the
most exclusive of the guests, a dull, aching pain crept into
her heart. Something said her day was over, and that her
enemy's day had come. Before they had been five minutes
in the room the young people had left their mother's side,
and presently Lady Emily saw Raybourne claim Evelyn's
hand for the waltz. They glided close past her, and for a
moment Evelyn's eyes rested on that fine face set just then
in its sternest expression. The faint colour rose in her
dark cheek ; she appeared to hesitate a moment, and then
gave a hurried bow. Raybourne felt her tremble on his
arm.

" What is it, Evelyn ? Do you feel cold ? "

" No, I was rather startled by my aunt's expression," she
answered at once. " I had forgotten that I should meet
her. Do you t' '.nk I ought to speak to her ? "

Syhtrs Fete.

199

** Not unless you wish. I must say her expression is not
particularly inviting," Raybourne answered with candour.
*• ohe is a little difficult to approach, I confess. Will bears
no resemblance to his mother."

" None whatever. I have not seen him yet. Ah, there
he is, watching Clem and Lady Sybil. Is it not audacious
of Clem to take such calm possession of the lady we are
invited to honour?"

"Sybil does not look as if she resented it much, does
she?" asked Raybourne, complacently.

" Well, what do you think of the marching order, Miss
Evelyn?"

" Clem is wild with delight," Evelyn answered, evasively.

"I didn't ask what Clem thinks. I know just his
opinion. It is yours I want."

" I am sorry for poor mamma. She is so brave, too.
She tried to hide what it cost her to look cheerful over it,"
Evelyn ansvered, keeping her sweet face averted from his.

" Mrs Ayre is a heroine. I have always thought so.
But why will you not answer the question I ask ? "

"You are not attending to the music, Lord Raybourne.
Is not that a lovely waltz, and how ex(}uisitely played. One
does not often hear such music in the country."

Raybourne made no answer, but his honest face flushed
suddenly, and he bit his lips as if to keep back something
which burned for utterance.

"You shall answer me, Evelyn, before you go to-night,"
he said, daringly. " Yes, it is a good waltz. Clem and I
will be dancing to different piping pretty soon, perhaps to
His Majesty Cetewayo's war cry."

He saw her pale again, and her sweet mouth trembled ;
but he dared not hope that it was for his going she mourned.

The attention paid by the young lieutenant to Evelyn
Ayre was noted by all present, and there were few who did
not pronounce them to be well fitted for each other, although
many wondered what the Marquis and Lady Adela would
say to such an alliance.

200

The Ayres of Studleigh.

" I think, dear, it will be wise if you refuse Lord Ray-
bourne the next dance," Rachel said, gently, during one of
the rare opportunities of speaking to her daughter. The
sensitive colour rushed to the girl's face and dyed it red.

" Oh, mamma, have I done wrong ? I did not mean to
vex you," she said, hurriedly.

" No, my darling, nothing wrong ; but I think it is being
observed that you are so much together."

" This is mine, Miss Evelyn," said Raybourne's voice just
beside them, but Rachel laid a finger on his arm and shook
her head.

" Evy has had too many waltzes. Lord Raybourne, let her
sit quietly by me ; or let her go with her brother this time.
Who knows how long it may be before they dance together
again ? "

Evelyn kept her eyes averted from the young man's face,
and moved away with Clem with evident relief.

"That was too bad, Mrs Ayre; on my last night too.
Have I done anything to offend you ? "

" Nothing, Lord Raybourne," Rachel answered with a
quick, kindly glance.

" Why the formal title ? I want to be Harry always to
you," he said, with significance. "Surely you do not
object to my dancing with Evelyn ! "

" No, Harry, but it is better, in gatherings of this kind,
not to attract attention," Rachel answered, quietly.

" I don't mind it at all, if Evelyn doesn't. Can't you see,
Mrs Ayre, what it is to me to be as near as possible to her
to-night. Have I your permission to speak ? "

" On what subject ? " she asked, almost nervously.

" Dear Mrs Ayre, it is imposs ble you cannot know what
I mean. Will you allow me to ask Evelyn not to forget me
till I come back again ? "

Rachel was silent a moment. The sweet seductive
strains of the music rose and swelled, the gay throng glided
past them, snatrhes of happy laughter and the echo of

Sybil's fete.

201

whispered words, reached them in that quiet niche, where
they were quite alone.

"I do not know what to say to you, Harry. I have
many things to consider. Leave it, at least, till to-morrow.
I should like to talk with your mother first."

"Well, I'll try, hut remember to-morrow is the last
opportunity I shall have. Tell me, at least, that ji?« have
no objections to me."

She raised her eyes to the honest face looking pleadingly
into hers, and her heart warmed to him.

" There is no one to whom I would more willingly give
my daughter, Harry, and she is my only one."

" Thank you. I shall try to deserve your trust. I am in
torture about Evelyn, Mrs Ayre. I have not the slightest
idea how she is disposed towards me."

"Nor have I," Rachel answered, with truth.

" If she will only give me the slightest hope, it will send
me across the sea a different man. There is nothing I will
not do or dare for her sake. I know what you are feeling
io-night about Clem, Mrs Ayre. May I promise you that
so far as lies in my power I shall look after him, and keep
him from being too reckless ? Whatever Evelyn's answer
may be, Clem will always be like my brother."

"God bless you, Harry," Rachel answered, in low, full
tones ; but could not look at him again, because her eyes
were dim. She thought at that moment, with a deep, sweet
gratitude, not of the great position, the noble name, which
were about to be laid at her child's feet, but only of the
true heart and pure life of the young man at her side. She
could not but pray that Evelyn would not lightly pass them
by.

"There is my mother beckoning t'> me. Will you ex-
cuse me one moment, Mrs Ayre. I shall be back to you
presently."

Racnel nodded, not sorry at that moment to be left alone.
But presently the rich sweeping of a silken gown behind her

202

The Ay res of Studleigh.

\ s

caused her to look suddenly round, and, involuntarily, she
rose as she found herself face to face with her sister-in-law.
Fortunately a tall bank of green waving plants hid that curious
scene, which lasted only for a second, from the crowded
throng. Lady Emily spoke first ; and when Rachel heard
her tones, she missed something of the old, imperious ring.

" Will you not sit down ? I have been looking at you
all evening, but you have been so occupied that I had no
opportunity of speech till now. You would not of your
own accord have spoken, I suppose ? "

Rachel looked at her steadily, inquiringly, for an instant,
and then sat down.

" No, Lady Emily, I should not ; but I am very glad, for
Will's sake, that you have spoken," was all she said.

Lady Emily smiled somewhat wearily, as she sank upon
the lounge opposite Mrs Geoffrey's chair. For the moment
her brilliant beauty seemed to have faded, and she looked
old and worn and sad.

" That may mean much or little, whatever I choose to
infer," she answered. " Have you forgiven me, Mrs
Geoffrey, for causing you to leave Pine Edge?"

' " Long ago, the bitterness was only for a moment,"
Rachel answered sincerely, forgetting in her generous un-
selfishness all the suffering of the past, and willing, nay
glad, to meet her proud kinswoman on different ground.

" I have regretted it ever since. It served no purpose
to me, though you ought to thank me for it," Lady Emily
said, with a faint smile. Rachel did not ask why.

"Your day has come, Mrs Geoffrey, and your triumph
in your children will be very complete. It must gratify
you to see how much both are admired."

" It does gratify me. I have a mother's natural pride,''
Rachel answered, though a trifle guardedly. She did not
feel sure of her ground. She did not know what to
think, or how to speak. She was even conscious of a
slight feeling of uneasiness, a return of the old nervousness

Sybil's Fete.

203

which in other days Lady Emily had had the nower to stir
in her breast.

" Does it not afford you a kind of exquisite satisfaction
that / should be here to-night to witness your triumph ? "
Lady Emily asked, leaning slightly forward. Rachel met
her gaze with a quiet, sad, wondering look.

" I do not quite understand you, Lady Emily. I have
not given the matter very much thought. I am glad that
my children are fair to look upon, and that others love
them, but, above all, I thank God that they are good."

" Our two sons, yours and mine ; look, they stand
together, yonder. Does it not give you a secret satisfac-
tion to mark the contrast between them ? Do you not
think I deserve that my boy's life should be to me such a
precarious possession ? "

" Oh, Lady Emily, God forbid ! "

The tone was so en '•nest ; the quick, dissenting look so
direct and sincere, that they carried conviction with them.
" What kind of a woman do you think I am ?"

" I hav ;'jdged you from my iwn standpoint — that is
all— a great admission and a humiliating one. But you
can afford to be generous ; unless my eyes deceive me
you will be bound by a double tie to this house. How
have you done it ; you, who had everything against you ?
By what consummate art do you win love and praise wher-
ever you go ? I would learn a lesson from you."

Again Rachel looked at the proud face in wondering
doubt. She could not tell whether the question was put
in irony or in simple earnest. She could not fathom the
nature of this strange woman, and yet her heart pleaded
for her.

" I have no art," she answered, simply. " I do not know
whether you ask me these things in scorn, or in a kindlier
spirit. I will believe the latter. Can you not believe me
when I say I am sincere in my love for your son, who has
a heart a king might envy."

■, f

204

The Ay res of Stud/eigh.

" Oh, I know, he is good, too good. I would he were a
little more human, a little less like his father, then I niis^ht
cling to hope," she cried, with a fierceness of passion which
made Rachel quail. " I tell you your triumph is more
complete than you imagine. There is your son with that
fair girl on his arm, whom I would give a world to call my
daughter. These two will reign in Studleigh after I and
mine are forgotten, Rachel Ayre, and then will my punish-
ment be complete."

mtma

^ >^'2-: .:^^«r5^5^Ja;^'^-^--^^V■"*' ^

CHAPTER XXIV.

love's young dream.

LEMENT AYRE had never forgotten his aunt's
treatment of them when they lived at the farm.
I^y/ In deference to his mother he had never spoken
one word of anger or blame ; but in his inmost
heart there dwelt a certain soreness against that haughty and
imperious woman who had embittered his mother's life. As
Lady Adela had said, his devotion to his mother was of a
very rare and perfect kind ; it found its expression in a
thousand little delicate attentions, at which some who pride
themselves upon being out of leading strings would have
contemptuously laughed. Even though the sweet girl he so
passionately loved was close by his side, he was not un-
mindful of his mother, but was quick to note her visible
agitation during her conversation with Lady Emily. It
irritated him, and took away his enjoyment of the dance.
Sybil saw that he was pre-occupied, and wondered that
he resigned her so quickly when the dance was over.
But when her eyes followed him as he strode away, she
was no longer surprised. In a second he was by his
mother's side, standing like a shield above her, his dark
eyes filled with a certain defiance as they dwelt on his
aunt's face.

' ■ ,!

rft

206

7Vie Ayres of StudUigh.

" The room is very hot, mother. Can T take you
out for a little? Lady Winterdyne is in the large con-
servatory."

Rachel looked up and smiled.

"There is your aunt, Clement. La Emily, I present
to you my son."

.Lady Emily stretched out her jewelled hand, and
Clement was obliged to take it, bowing slightly as W
did so — so slightly that Lady Emily could not forbear a
smile.

" He accepts the introduction on sufferance," she said
with a laugh which had a harsh ring in it. " I saw him
looking daggers at me over Lady Sybil's golden head.
I am glad to see that the boy has the spirit of his
father."

Clement reddened slightly. It was not altogether
pleasant to have his inmost thought thus revealed.

Rachel rose. She saw that nothing was to be gained by
prolonging the conversation, Lady Emily being in such a
strange, reckless mood.

But Lady Emily motioned her to be still, and rose
herself.

" I will not drive you from your corner. I see an old
friend yonder in the alcove. I have not seen him for years.
So you are under orders for Natal also, Lieutenant Ayre,"
she paused to add. " May I express the hope that your
military career may be as glorious as your father's, though
not, I trust, for many reasons, so short."

Clement bowed. He also A'as haunted by a vague
distrust, a shadowy doubt of Lady Emily's courteous
words.

"Good-evening, Mrs Geoffrey. Perhaps we may meet
again. If not, remember what I have said," she said,
distinctly. I regret the past. I would undo it if I
could."

She moved slowly away from them, her silken gown

Love's Young Dnam. 207

sweeping majestically behind her. Clement looked after
her in a curious wonder.

" What a strange being. I pity poor Will. What did
she say to you, mother? I saw you looked vexed."

"Not much, Clement. I am sorrier for her even than
for her son. She is a jealous, unhappy woman. She suffers
more now than she ever made us suffer. Remember that
always, my son, and be kind to her if you have oppor-
tunity."

" If she is miserable, it is her own fault,' said Clem,
bluntly. "I say, mother, isn't this a jolly entertain-
ment ? "

"You are enjoying it, then?" she asked, with a quick
upward glance.

" I am. It will be a fine thing to look back upon when
we are toiling under an African sun," said Clement, soberly,
and then his eyes wandered again listlessly round the room,
till they found what they sought — the fair face of Sybil
Rayne. Then a curious shadow of sadness settled down
upon his own.

" I wish, mother, that I were something more than a poor
lieutenant," he said, suddenly.

"But you will not always be that, Clem."
" No, if hard work can do any good, I'll have something
worthy to offer her^

He spoke under his breath, but his mother caught every
word.

"You love her then, and I am to lose both my
children's hearts at once," she said, with a tremulous
smile.

" No, no, it can make no difference j you are always our
mother," Clem made answer, quickly. " But what do you
mean by both ? Has Harry said anything ? "

" Yes, he has asked me to-night to allow him to speak to
Evelyn,"

208

The Ayres of Studiiiqh.

"And you said, yes, of course. Rayboiirne *s a perfect
brick ; as honest a fellow as ever breathed."

" I did not say no. What do you think Evelyn will say ?"

" Ah, I can't tell that. Nobody can answer for her. I'.ut
it'll be a shame if she sends juKjr Hal to the Cape a disap-
pointed man. I only wish that I had as good a ri^Iii to
speak, but in my present position it would be presump-
tion."

Rachel was silent. She could not indeed contradict him.
A poor lieutenant, with his spurs to win, was as yet scarcely
on equal grounds with Lord Winterdyne's daughter, who
would be one of the richest heiresses in the ccunty.

" In all but wealth you are her equal, Clement," she
said. " But I think you are right not to s{)eak, at least till
you come back. The VVinterdynes have been our kindest
friends since we came to Stonecroft, but we must not abuse
that kindness."

" I suppose not," said Clem, rather gloomily, as he pulled
his moustache. " All the same, it 's hard on a fellow who
may come back to find her married to somebody else."

" If so, you will bear it like a man, Clem," was all his
mother said.

The young soldier tried to feel resigned and virtuous over
his resignation, but all the same a fierce rebellion was gnaw-
ing at his heart, and his passionate love urging him to throw-
prudence to the winds. Rachel could have uttered a word
of comfort. She had closely watched Lady Adela all even-
ing, and saw that though she observed the frequency witli
which Clement and Lady Sybil were to^gether, she made not
the slightest attempt to prevent it, which could so easily and
gracefully have been done, seeing Lady Sybil was the guest
of the evening, and was supposed to bestow her favours
equally among all who had come to do her honour and to
wish her a happy birthday. But though that seemed a
favourable omen, Rachel forbore to notice it to Clement,
believing it would be well for all concerned that he should

Love's Young Dream.

209

lous over
ras gnaw-
to throw
id a word
, all even-
jncy with
made not
easily and
the guest
IX favours
3ur and to
seemed a
Clement,
he should

go without giving expression to his hopes. But young love
cannot always be bound l)y the prudence held up for it^^
admiration and guidance. Poor Clem honestly meant to lie
true, to keep his hopes and his bitter longings to himself,
until at least he should have something worthy to lay at
her feet ; but l)efore the night was over he had forgotten all
his fine resolves. The turn of a golden head, the witching
light of a pair of violet eyes, a quick, starting tear, did it
all.

At midnight there was a lull in the dancing, and the
guests in coats and wraps flocked on the terrace to see a dis-
play of fireworks in the Park. It was an intensely dark nigiit,
not a star gleamed in the heavy sky ; and the air had that
peculiar soundlessness in it whicii we notice in still autumn
nights, ( Mem had made up his mind after his talk with his
mother that he would keep far away from Sybil during the
rest of the evening, and when he found himself outside,
immediately put his good resolution into practice by seeking
her out among the throng and keeping as near to her as
possible. She noticed his depression, the grave seriousness
of his looks, and, womanlike, began to wonder wherein she
had grieved him.

"I did not forget the last dance, Mr Ayre," she said,
timidly, when they found themselves a little apart from the
others. " But you were so long in coming to claim me that
I thought jt^w had forgotten, so I went up with Will, and I
think," she added, with a sly, little smile, " he dances much
better than you."

"Very likely. Will is a very polished gentleman beside
a rough diamond like me," Clem answered, gruffly.

" I don't know whether you could justly be called a
diamond at all when you speak like that," she said quickly,
and with flushing cheeks, for she could not understand the
strangeness of his manner.

" Perhaps not ; it doesn't matter. The worse you think
me, the better perhaps in the end for me," he said, more

210

T/te Ayres of Studleigk.

grufifl" still, and she turned her head quickly away, but not
before he saw the quick, bright tear start to her eye, and
Clem was not brave enough nor prudent enough to see that
and say nothing.

"Can't you see I'm doing it on purpose to hide my own
misery ? " he asked. " Come, let us go round to the sun-dial.
It will be quiet there. Let them miss you. It 's the last
night I shall have a word with you anyhow ; who knows the
last time we may ever meet on earth. Would you be sorry,
Sybil ? No, don't answer me. I've no right to ask, but as
I live I can't help it. I love you better than my own soul,
and if you should never speak to me again I'll go on loving
you till I die."

So in that simple, outspoken way did Clem keep his
fine resolution ; and the most curious thing of all was that
Sybil made no sign of disapproval, nor did she offer to
leave his side.

" Forgive my confounded presumption, Sybil, and let me
call you Sybil just for once. I didn't know how my soul
clave to you till to-night, when I thought what lay before
me, and that I might never see you again. Whatever
happens, and on whatever blessed fellow you may bestow
the treasure of your love, you may believe that nobody
will ever love you better than I do, and will till I
die."

" Do you want me to marry somebody else ? Isn't that
a curious kind of love, Clem ? "

Something in the wavering tones of her voice made his
heart give a great bound, and he bent his head from his
tall height till he could look into her face.

" Sybil, what do you mean ? It can't be that you care
anything for a great lumbering creature like me, that
you do more than tolerate me because I am Harry's
friend?"

Still Sybil never spoke ; but she lifted her sweet face to
his, and her eyes answered him. And the next moment

Loves Young Dream.

211

ut not
e, and

ee that

ny own
un-dial.
the last
ows the
)e sorry,
:, but as
\vn soul,
)n loving

keep his

was that

: offer to

nd let me

my soul

ay before

Whatever

|ay bestow

.t nobody

ill till 1

Isn't that

made his
from his

it you care
me, that
[m Harry's

reet face to
kt moment

that face was hidden on Clement Ayre's heart, and she felt
his strong arms tremble as they clasped her.

" My darling," v/as all he said. " I can't believe it. I
can't believe it. Couldn't you say something ; just one
little word to convince me that I am neither mad nor
dreaming ? "

And Sybil said the word, but what it was we will not ask,
but leave them there with their great happiness — it will be
through many deadly perils and agonies of suspense that
they will ever so stand again. And even then there must
rest upon them a cloud of sorrow which shall never be
wholly lightened this side the grave.

It was natural perhaps that they should forget everything
but each other so completely, but it was no wonder that ere
long Sybil was missed from among the gay throng ; and
they began to whisper to each other that "the tall lieu-
tenant" — as somebody had called him that evening — was
missing too. And many a smile and nod were exchanged ;
but they looked a little bewildered when, after a time, the
tall lieutenant came sauntering back to the terrace alone,
looking as unconcerned as possible. He had taken Sybil
into the house by the open French window of the morning-
room, and she had escaped unobserved upstairs, not quite
unobserved, however, for Lady Emily, seated in one of the
alcoves in the hall, caught a glimpse of the flying figure,
with flushed, radiant cheeks and shining eyes, and with
quick intuition read the girl's happy secret. She was not
surprised, scarcely disappointed. The cup of her bitterness
was full, indeed, and could not be added to. But she did
wonder what Lord Winterdyne, with all his hope and pride
in his children, would say to a double alliance with the
son and daughter of poor Geoffrey Ayre. From Lady
Adcla she anticipated no opposition, her views on marriage
questions savouring not at all of worldly wisdom.

The brilliant f^te drew to a close, and in the dark hush
of the early morning the guests who had participated in the

!; s

kr!:

212

The Ay res of Studleigh.

\\w

princely hospitality of Winterdyne drove away well pleased
with their entertainment.

The little party from Stonecroft were among the first to
go, though Clement pleaded for a respite. Rachel, how-
ever, was tired out, a cloud lay on her spirit ; she could not
say whether it was born of Lady Emily's strangeness or
not. Evelyn also looked worn and sad. With much
anxiety Rachel looked at her once or twice, wondering
what the issue of the fete would be for her. Clement was
at times jubilant, then relapsed into utter silence. His
mother did not dream, however, that he had spoken
irrevocable words to the daughter of the house.

When they reached home, Evelyn went directly up-
stairs, but Clement detained his mother a moment in the
hall.

"Wait a moment, mother, I want to speak to you. I
have frightfully disobeyed you, but I am the happiest
fellow in the world."

" My son, what do you mean ? " Rachel asked, and her
wrap fell from her shoulders in the quick excitement of the
moment.

" I have spoken to Sybil, mother, and she actually cares
for a great awkward chap like me, who has nothing to otfer
her but an honest love."

"Oh, Clement, I fear it was not wisely done. You
did not seek to bind her, I trust, by any promise. There
is so much to be considered, as you say. What have
you to offer Lord Winterdyne's daughter that they would
think tvorthy her acceptance? I trust, I trust that this
rashness will not bring sorrow and disappointment to
us all.''

" Mother, I don't think it, and I can't help it," cried
Clement, earnestly. " Could a fellow go away, loving her
as I do, and never utter a word ? I couldn't do it, and I'm
ready to face the consequences."

Loves Young Drcant.

^13

He looked it, and in the flashing eye, which was
yet subdued by a tine tenderness, his mother read what
had given him courage, even as it had given his father
courage in these unforgcjtten days, to risk the world for
love.

" Have you nothing but blame for me, mother ? " he
asked, wistfully, as he regarded her grave face. " If you
only knew how I love her, and what it is to me to know
that she is not indifferent, you would not be so silent,
mother, I will be worthier of her some day. I will not
ask her to share an ignoble life."

" God bless you, my son, yes, and the sweet girl who is
already as dear to me as my own," Rachel said, falteringly,
and yet with a smile which Clement saw was not altogether
forced. " Whatever be the issue it will be for good. I
leave my children in God's hands."

She kissed him as she left him, but ere she reached her
own room the smile had died on her lips. Her heart was
very heavy, and she sighed as she laid aside her wraps and
took off her rich attire. She unbound her hair, and, throw-
ing on her dressing gown, stepped across the corridor to
Evelyn's door. For the first time she found it locked
against her.

" Are you asleep, Evy ; may I not come in ? "

" Not to-night, please, dea.r mamma."

There was something in the tone which went to Rachel's
heart.

" You are quite well, my darling ? "

" Quite well, dear mamma," came the answer as be-
fore.

Rachel did not insist on being admitted, although for
the moment, perhaps, she felt it hard. Between her
daughter and herself, however, there was much in common,
and from her ov/n experience Rachel knew that there are
some things which must be borne in their first keenness

I-
■I '

!?:

214

T/ie Ayres of SUidleigh.

alone, when even the sympathy of nearest and dearest can
only jar. If such an hour had come thus early to Evelyn,
then her mother could only, as she had said, leave the child
with God. But that night there was no sleep for Rachel
Ayre.

fi\tSr^'- xAti

CHAPTER XXV.

THE NEXT DAY.

EXT morning Clement and his sister breakfasted
alone. There was something about Evelyn he
could not understand; he surmised, correctly
enough, that something of an unusual nature
had happened to disturb her, but as she made no allusion
to it, he did not ask any questions. They talked of
commonplace things, discussed thtfite and the people who
were there, but each knew that the thoughts of the other
were otherwise occupied, though Evelyn did not yet know
of her brother's engagement to Sybil Rayne. "Mamma
was asleep when I looked in, Clem. She looks so worn
and white that I am quite sure she cannot have slept any
all night. Did Aunt Emily say anything to vex her, do you
think ? I saw them talking together for quite a long time,"
said Evelyn, turning aside at length from trivial gossip over
ihefete.

" I don't know what she said, Evy, and that 's a fact ; but
she's a perfect tartar," answered Clem, with his usual
candour. " I had the felicity of being introduced to her.
What glorious eyes she has ; they penetrate your whole
being. I should not like to pick a quarrel with our august
relative,"

*1'

I I

Ml-:

lit?

li'i

l|:

■

2l6

The Ayres of SUidktgh.

" I did not venture near her. She looked so scornfully
at me several times that I began to feel wretchedly uncom-
fortable, to say nothing of my clothes, which, I was firmly
convinced, looked limp and mean."

" Nonsense, there were few like you. That blac'c muslin
thing and the yellow fly-away ends looked stunning."

Evelyn laughed.

"Oh, Clem, to hear you call my fine combination of
Spanish lace and Lyons velvet black muslin ; but I appre-
ciate your approval all the same. I think our own mother
was the handsomest woman in the room, our aunt not
excepted. Her hair is so lovely ; and she looks so
young."

" I agree with you ; but I say, Evy, I don't think you
enjoyed the thing. Do you think any of them will be over
from Winterdyne to-day ? If not "

" If not what ? " asked Evelyn, as she rose from the table.

"I must go there, that's all," and just then a servant
appeared saying Mrs Ayre was awake and would like her
daughter to come .up. Evelyn obeyed the summons at once.
Perhaps she was glad to escape from further talk about the
family at Winterdyne. Mrs Ayre was having breakfast in
bed — a most unusual occurrence wit^ her. She set down
her coffee-cup, and turned her eyes with keenest question-
ing upon her daughter's face.

''Good morning, my love. I am very lazy, this morning.
I heard none of the bells; but it was broad day before I
fell asleep."

*' I felt sure of it, mamma. I looked in as I went down,
and you were sleeping so soundly I told Katherine not to
disturb you. Have you everything you want?"

"Everything. How tuxq you this morning, Evy?"

" Quite well, mamma, thank you. May I draw up the
blind ? The sunshine is so lovely. Are you not shocked
to hear that it is nearly eleven o'clock ? "

Rachel was perfectly conscious that Evelyn was avoiding

The Next Day.

217

her gaze, and apparently ill at case ; but she took no notice
of it.

" I hope Clement is down, and that he is very well this
morning,"

" Oh, yes. We have been gossiping over the fete since
ten o'clock. Clem is in great spirits. We shall be very
dull without him, mother. I cannot bear to think of it."

" Nor can 1. I do not realise it yet," the mother an-
swered, slowly.

Evelyn wandered restlessly round the room, and finally
stood still at the foot of the bed.

" Will you mind, mamma, if I go out this morning for a
long walk ? "

" Are you not tired enough, dear ? " Rachel asked quietly.

"I am not tired at all. I wish to go out this morning."

" May I not know why ? "

A painful flush overspread the girl's sweet face.

" I will tell you if you wish, mamma. Lord Raybourne
will be here this morning, and I do not wish to see him."

" Come round here, Evy."

Rachel stretched out her hands to her daughter, and she
came slowly round to the side of the bed, and kneeling
down hid her face.

" My darling, I have gone through it all, and I under-
stand. Tell me or not, whatever you think best. I know
that whatever may happen you are my brave, good, dutiful
daughter, who has never cost me a moment's pain."

" I will net, mamma, if I can help it. I think my duty
is quite clear. I shall go out this morning, and — and by
to-morrow he will have gone away, and when he comes
back he will have forgotten."

"And you?"

With what unspeakable tenderness did the mother's hand
rest on the bent head as she asked the question.

"Perhaps — then I shall have forgotten too." Evelyn
said, and pressed her cheek against her mother's soft palm,

l|l:l

2l8

The Ayres of Studlcif^h.

and for a moment there was silence. In that moment
Rachel's heart rebelled for her child's suffering, asking,
passionately, why it must ever be the weak who are called
upon to suffer ; and yet, conscious in her inmost soul that
not even Clement, in all the pride of his manhood's strength,
could be so strong to suffer and to endure for duty's sake
as the gentle girl by her side.

" Did he speak to you last night, Evelyn ? If you would
rather I did not ask these questions, my dearest, tell me,
but perhaps it may do you good."

" It will ; it does. It is always good to speak to you,
mother. He did say something," she added, slowly, and
with difficulty. " I could not misunderstand him, though
it was a great surprise. Mother, you do believe that I did
not know ; that I have never done anything to encourage
Lord Raybourne ; that I have not laid my plans, as they
said, to catch him."

" Evelyn, what do you mean ? " asked the mother, looking
inexpressibly shocked. ,

" I heard them, some ladies, I did not know them, talk-
ing in one of the conservatories. They said all that, mamma,
and a great deal more I cannot repeat. Oh, mother, how
can people be so wicked, so cruel, when we have never
harmed them ? "

"My child, it is a hard, cruel world, and we have to
harden ourselves against its evil-speaking, else we should
fret ourselves into our graves. Do not let this idle speaking
vex or grieve you for a moment, but believe what I do assure
you, that you have ever been a model of maidenly propriety.
These untrue and uncharitable words will only recoil on
the heads of those who uttered them ; they cannot possibly
hurt you. Evelyn, tell me frankly, has Lord Raybourne
asked you to be his wife ? "

" No, mother, because I would not listen. I gave him
no opportunity."

" Was it because of what you heard ? "

The Next Day.

219

"No, mother."

For a few moments Evelyn said no more.

" I made up my mind, lo»ig ago, mamma," she continued
at length, " that day you told me the story of your life, that
I should never marry into a fiimiiy which considered itself
above my own."

Rachel mournfully smiled.

" My darling, your case is entirely different. Your father
belonged to an older family than the Raynes. I do not
think you could hold to your decision unless there was a
more potent reason behind."

"Then, am I quite wrong, mamma?"

" No, Evelyn, I think you were wise not to let Lord
Raybourne speak — that you will be wise to keep out of his
way, at least until he comes back. Then, if he is still of
the same mind, the matter may be seriously considered.
You are both so young, you can afford to wait a few months
or years."

Rachel looked at her young daughter keenly as she rose
from her knees. She would have liked to probe deeper, to
ask how far her affections were involved, how great or how
slight a sacrifice she was making. But there was some-
thing in the girl's still, proud reticence which kept back any
further questioning.

" I shall go then, mother, and send Clem up to you. I
may not come in till afternoon. If I walk as far as the
Rectory, I can lunch with Mrs Peploc."

" Very well, my love, and meanwhile I sui)pose 1 am to
deal with the braw wooer," she said, with a slight smile.
" Well, you may leave the case in my hands. Has Clem
told you that Sybil has promised to be his wife ? "

"No. If that is so, it is another weighty reason in
favour of my decision. I cannot be sorry, mother, nor
pretend I am. Sybil is so sweet, and Clem such a splendid
fellow, What a different wprld would it be if there were no

220

The Ay res of StudJeigh,

world's opinion, none of these miserable distinctions and
conventionalities to be considered."

Rachel Ayre passionately re-echoed these words in her
heart, as, a little later, she watched Evelyn set out upon her
walk. The girl's step seemed to have lost its buoyancy.
Her movements were lisdess, as if she had lost interest in
life. For a moment the anxious mother felt a slight bitter-
ness in her heart against the man who had robbed the
child of her peace of mind. And yet she chided herself
for her own unreason, since it was Evelyn's own winsome
charm which had won him.

It was a fine, clear autu.-*in morning, a silvery brightness
shone through the pensive veil of the sky, the still air
seemed weighted with the rich autumnal odours ; already
the trees were tinged with sober browns and gaudy yellows,
against which the glossy greenness of the pines and hollies
showed in fine relief. The fieU^s were stripped of their
harvest riches, and flower had given place to fruit, even on
la.e-bearing bushes, so that there was subdued colouring
everywhere, unrelieved by anything more vivid than the
yellow of the beech leaves.

Stonecroft stood in a richly-wooded district, and the walk
to the rectory at Brierly village could be taken entirely
through the woods. As was natural, Evelyn chose that
pleasant way. She was in no hurry. She was not ex-
pected at Brierly, and in that deep solitude, amid Nature's
pensive beauty, it would seem less hard to face what was
to her a real sacrifice, for with keen suddenness she had
awakened to the knowledge that her heart was given, with
all its love, to her brother's friend. It was to be expected
that a daughter reared by Rachel Ayre would not grow up
to regar4 marriage as the aim of a woman's existence ; and
Evelyn had given the matter less thought than is common
with girls of her age.

Her perfect naturalness, her acceptance of Lord Ray-
bourne s attentions in a spirit qf comradeship, because he

The Next Day,

221

was her brother's most intimate friend, had not well pre-
pared her for this shock and the decision for which it im-
mediately called. She had tried to analyse her feelings, to
convince herself that it could he no sacrifice to her to
refuse Raybourne's love, if she could keep his friendship,
but all that was left to her after she had so resigned herself
was an aching heart. The thoughtless, malicious words,
which have so many counterparts in this uncharitable
world, had left a sting in her sensitive nature which would
long rankle. I)oui)tless it would have gratified the gossip-
mongers could they have witnessed Evelyn Ayre's humilia-
tion and the bitter tears they had caused her to shed.

It was very pleasant that September morning in the
autumnal woods. Something of the spirit of peace per-
vading these dim solitudes crept over Evelyn, and somehow
the silent sympathy of Nature seemed to make her sacrifice
less hard. She sat down by-and-by on the low mossy para-
pet of a quaint, old bridge spanning a wide, brawling brook,
and dreamily watched the clear water dancing over the
rough pebbles : its noisy song soothing her into a kind of
dreamy restfulness. She was tired out, physically and
mentally, and it was a perfect rest to be alone in the depths
of the woods, away from every human eye. She sat a long
time in that silent, dreamful mood, feeling herself strangely
far off from life and all its fulness of joy and care ; but at
length the sound of approaching steps broke the spell, and
she rose to go upon her way. She felt no nervousness nor
curiosity even at being disturbed in her solitude, because the
way through the wood was a right-of-way from one village to
another, and especially in summer weather was always
preferred by pedestrians. When the long stride crushing
the brushwood came nearer, she suddenly looked round
with heightened colour, and a strange fluttering at her
heart, and the next moment the lover against whom she
was trying to steel herself was by her side, his honest eyes

222

The Ayres of Studleigh.

I! '

full of reproach, although they brightened into tenderness
as they dwelt upon her changing face.

"Lore Raybourne, it was not kind to follow me," she
said, in tones which her great effort made very cold and
stern.

"Was it kincfofyou to try and avoid me, Evelyn? It
was of no use. I should have seen you if I had to wait the
whole day. Mrs Ayre sent me to bring you back. Will you
turn with me now ? "

" Mamma sent you. Lord Raybourne," Evelyn repeated,
in the low accents of boundless surprise.

" She did, and my mother seconded. The whole family
is at Stonecroft, Evelyn," he answered, with a curious
twinkle in his eye. " Don't disappoint them."

She turned her face away, maiden-like, to hide the light
of love which filled her eyes.

" I will only ask you to go back on one condition,
Iwelyn ; that I may take you to my mother as her daughter,
who will take Sybil's place. She knows my errand, and is
waiting to receive you."

Still Evelyn neither spoke nor turned to meet his gaze.
Then a great fear took possession of the honest fellow
pleading for her love.

" Evelyn, have I made the greatest of all mistakes ?
Have I overlooked the chief obstacle, that you don't care
for me at all ? Tell me so honestly. I can take my refusal
like a man, but don't play with me, for I am in earnest, and
I want you to be in earnest too."

Then Evelyn turned slowly to him, and the loveliest of
smiles illumined her grave face.

" It is a shame to come and upset all my beautiful com-
posure after the struggle I have had to attain it."

It was a sweet admission, and what could the honest
soldier do but take her to his breast and pour his heart out
in passionate endearment.

§0 that eventful day witnessed a double betrothal, and

The Next Day.

223

crncss

," she

d and

n? It

•ait the

/ill you

ipeatcd,

e family
curious

the light

:indition,
laughter,
d, and is

his gaze.
5t fellow

nistakes ?
on't care
vj refusal
nest, and

Lveliest of

tiful conv

surcly Rachel Ayre had just reason to hi* proud and grateful,
if ever woman had, for her children and her friends. If
there was any slight disappointment in the minds of Lord
VVinterdyne and his wife, they did not suffer it to he seen.
Believing as both did that love is the most essential element
in ha[)py marriage, they felt no desire to stand in the way
of their children's happiness, or to set aside their choice.

Soon, very soon, they were to feel unspeakably thankful
that they had sent their boy forth to the hazards of war with
nothing but high hopes and abiding ha[)i)iness in his heart.

lie honest
heart out

)thal, and

9 1 i

•I ;

•I

-ir' ^'

CHAPTER XXVI.

TWO COUPLES.

^T was most truly kind of you to leave your guests
and come here this morning," Rachel repeated to
Lady Winterdyne, when Clement had taken
Sybil away down by the lake, where we will not
seek to follow them. Lord Winterdyne smiled a somewhat
grim smile.

" My dear Mrs Ayre, we had positively no alternative,"
he said, drily. " I said to my wife this morning that
surely we had been lax in some department of our parental
rule when our children could command such prompt
obedience from us."

Rachel smiled also, but almost immediately her face
grew graver.

" I think no engagement should be allowed in either
case ; that the matter should at least be left open until the
soldiers' return from the Cape."

" No engagement, indeed ! " reiterated Lord Winterdyne,
good humouredly. "And at this very moment two pairs
of lovers are swearing eternal fealty, and [)erhaps fixing the
day. We may as well give in peacefully, Mrs Ayre. Just
look at my wife's eyes. I believe this is a pet plan of

Two Couples.

225

hers come to fulfilment, and she can't hide her satis-
faction."

" In my son's case especially," continued Rachel. " We
cannot pretend to think that he has anything worthy to
offer Lord Winterdyne's daughter. I am not without hopes
that the day may come when we shall not be ashamed of
his name."

"To hear Sir Randal Vane one would believe that
Captain Ayre's son might aspire to the hand of a Princess,"
laughed Lady Winterdyne. " Dear Mrs Ayre, let us not
lay any restrictions upon the young people. Remember
how short a time they have together now, and what un-
certainty attends the future. You may believe that Lord
Winterdyne and I are entirely satisfied, otherwise we should
never have encouraged their intimacy."

It was impossible for Rachel to continue oppressed by
any sense of dissatisfaction, and she permitted her real
happiness and pride to show themselves.

" Then you told the Vanes, Lady Winterdyne ? " she
said, inquiringly.

" Yes, and Lady Emily Ayre also. She goes home
to-day."

" Did she express surprise or displeasure, may I
ask?"

" Neither. She made no comment whatever. I confess
I do not understand your sister-in-law. She is entirely
changed. I wonder if there is always a certain disappoint-
ment in renewing early friendships. Perhaps the change
lies with me."

"She has had a long widowhood. Lady Winterdyne,
and her husband was so absolutely devoted to her that she
must miss him intolerably," said Rachel, gently.

"Yes, but I know many widows who mourn tiieir
husbands as sincerely as it is possible for Lady Emily to
do, and yet who think they have a duty to others as long
^s they are in the world," maintained Lady Winterdyne,

226

T/ie Ayres of Stndleigh.

frankly. "I do not think she knows her duty to her son,
who is a splendid fellow, if he were brought out a little
more. He is very shy and reserved."

"With strangers, but the good Squire lives pgain in his
boy," answered Rachel, with real emotion. " I wish he
were not so like him in physical weakness. It sometimes
makes nie fear lest a second sorrow, worse than the first,
should shadow Lady Emily's later years."

Lord Winterdyne looked at her curiously. Evidently it
had never occurred to her that by Will Ayre's death a great
inheritance would come to her own son. Few women
would have been able so absolutely to sink all selfish
interest, he thought, and she rose higher in his estimation,
though he did not speak.

"She has had a great disappointment just now, Mrs
Ayre. There had been some talk between us of a marriage
between Sybil and her son."

" Is it possible that Will can care for your daughter ? "
asked Rachel, in quick anxiety. "I thought he had not
met her until now."

" Nor had he, and he cares nothing for her. No sooner
did he come to Winterdyne than I saw how futile it was for
us to plan for our children. It is Harry, not Sybil, who
has dealt him his bitter disappointment."

Rachel looked bewildered, but Lady Winterdyne nodded,
as she reiterated her assertion.

"Will has more than a cousinly affection for your
daughter, Mrs Ayre ; and I think he is not the kind of man
to transfer it so lightly. Ah, there are the truants ! Is
there anything to be gathered from Evelyn's face ? Look
at her, Harry, and tell me, if you have not outgrown your
old intuitions."

There was nothing to be gathered from Evelyn's calm,
serene face, which had not even a heightened colour to
betray her.

But Raybourne's proud elation would not hide, and as

Tivo Couples.

227

son,
little

n his
5h he
;times
I first,

;ntly it
1 great
,vomen
selfish
nation,

w, Mrs
carriage

ghter?"
had not

) sooner
was for
bil, who

nodded,

or youi

i of man

nts 1 Is

? T.ook

own your

n's calm,

colour to

le,

and as

they passed by the window he drew her hand within his
arm with that delightful air of possession which is the out-
standing attribute of a newly-made lover. It was a trying
ordeal Evelyn nad to face, but she bore herself with an
exquisite grace which won all hearts anew. Rachel was
disappointed in her, however ; she missed something of
that elation which the happy crown of her love affair had
the right to evoke. She was too calm and serious ; tears
seemed nearer to her eyes than the sunshine of happy
laughter. When Raybourne proposed that Clement should
return to Winterdyne in his place, no one demurred. The
time was so short and so precious, and the separation might
be so long and so bitter, that they had need to make the
most of the few hours left.

Often during that day Rachel's thoughts reverted some-
what painfully to Lady Winterdyne's speech about Will
Ayre. She had felt inclined at first to set it down as
imagination, but when she sat down calmly in her solitude
to think of it, she feared it was too true. She remembered
cc ntless little signs she had passed unheeded at the time,
but which all pointed to Will's love for his cousin. Her
heart filled anew with compassion for him. Although,
certainly, he possessed many of the world's good gifts,
much was denied him. He was a singularly lonely man,
who appeared to be destined to an existence unblessed by
ties of love or family life. And yet Rachel felt that it
was better that Evelyn's choice had not fallen on her
cousin.

When the party returned to Winterdyne luncheon was
waiting for them, and the luggage for Studleigh ready to
depart.

'• Well, good people, there are excei)tional circumstances,
or our conduct would not be tolerated," said Lady Winter-
pyne, gaily, as she hurried to her place at the tai)le. " Wc
have settled the fate ol our two elder children, and only
Norman remams to be disposed of Long may he con-

228

The Ayres of ^tudleigh.

L.i i

tinue devoted to his skeletojis and fossils. Clement, vou
must sit on my right hand, and comport yourself with the
dignity befitting your new responsibilities."

Her happy humour broke the ice, and restored the best
of feeling to the company. As Clement passed by his
cousin's chair Will ;>at back his hand and gripped it like a
vice.

"All right, old man," Clem answered, a little unsteadily,
and a curious moisture for a moment dimmed his eyes.
Fortunately he was sitting directly op[)osite to Sybil, and
could thus look at her unreproached. It was a very happy,
merry meal. Sir Randal and Lady Vane were full of non-
sense, and unmercifully teased the young pair. It was not
noticed how very silent Lady Emily was during the moal.
Proud woman though she was, she was no hypocrite, and
would not utter congratulations which would be as hollow
as they were forced.

She did not make the slightest allusion to the state o.
affairs, even when Lady Winterdyne came to her dressii^.g-
room when she was preparing for her journey.

" I shall come and see you when the soldiers have gone.
We shall be dull enough, and glad of anything to break the
monotony," Lady Winterdyne said. " I was saying to
Winterdyne this morning I thought we should go and
spend Christmas in Rome if we could persuade Mrs Ayre
and Evelyn to accompany us."

" As Lord Raybourne is only a volunteer, I wonder he
does not draw back at the eleventh hour," Lady Emily
said, as she stooped to fasten her shoe-lace.

"Oh, he would not think of it now^' Lady Winterdyne
repeated, with emphasis. "That would be too like a
school-girl, especially after Colonel Mostyn's kindness. He
must go and take his chance. When shall we see you
again at Winterdyne?"

" I do not know. I have enjoyed my visit very much —

Two Couples.

229

only it has convinced mc that when one has been long
excluded from society it is best not to seek readrnission.
I am forgotten in twenty years, Adela ; in twenty more,
as I said the other day, there will be a new regime at
Studleigh."

" Emily, I wish I could convince you of your sinfulness
in taking such a gloomy view of life."

" If I am gloomy, God knows I have much to make me
so," she retorted, p ssionntely. " You who have never had
a wish disappointed or a desire unfulfilled, even now,
cannot sympathise with the sorrows of a woman who has
never entertained a hope which has not been blasted, nor
fixed her affections on an ol)jcct which was not wrested
from her."

The momentary brightness which change of scene and
company had infused into that gloomy mind had passed
away, and Lady Winterdyne began to find that, instead of
doing good, she had but added to the care and disappoint-
ment of her old friend. She felt conscious, though she re-
proached herself for it, of a strange sense of relief when the
carriage rolled away. It was as if a cloud had lifted from
the house.

" What were you saying to your cousin to make him look
at you so oddly in the hall ? " Lady Emily asked her son as
they drove away.

"Not much, mother," Will replied, with an evasiveness
very unlike his usual quiet frankness.

" I can scarcely believe it. He looked as if you had
astonished him very much ; and if that were possible, moved
his heart."

" It was something only concernmg him and me, mother,"
he answered gently. " It will be better if you do not
insist."

"And if I do insist on knowing?"

"Then I must tell you. I was only reminding him what

2.30

The Ay res of Stndleigh.

■ ('if :» ■

I:''

a precious and important life he carries in his hand, and
asking him to be careful of it. He is brave and daring to
foolhardiness, just as Sir Randal says Uncle ''leoff was
before him."

"Your aunt should be a pro"d woman to-day, Will,
Surely her highest ambition will be satisfied now?"

"I do not think that she had that kind of ambition,
mother ; but she must be satisfied, especially when the
Winterdynes have behaved so splendidly."

"You don't grudge your cousin his bride, then? She
made no impression on you at all ? "

" None, in the way you mean, though I admire and like
her," Will replied, and again the dark, dusky red mounted
to his cheek.

" Nor Raybourne his, I presume ? " she said, merely out
of curiosity-

"No, that is, not now. I have made up my mind that I
must live a lonely life, save for you, and, believe me, mother,
I want no other."

" Do you mean to say that that dark, proud girl, so like
her mother, that I could not bear to speak to her, has won
you^ Will; that if it had been possible you would have made
her mistress of Studleigh ? "

Will turned to his mother with a gesture of dissent and a
look of inexpressible weariness. " Mother, why drag these
things into discussion? You wring admissions from me
and then make yourself miserable over them. Let us try to
be happier and more contented with each other, and try to
believe that I have scarcely a wish beyond your care and
comfort."

"I want an answer to my question," she reiterated, with
that exasperating persistence which had grown upon her of
late.

" Then I do love my cousin Evelyn as a man loves but
once in life, as my father loved you ; but, even had there

Tivo Couples.

231

been no Rayhourne seeking to win her, I should have kept
in the background. I should never have asked her to be my
wife."

" You could scarcely expect her to look favourably upon
you with such a brilliant settlement within her reach," Lady
Emily said, with bitter sarcasm. " I like the boy : he has
his father's frank, outspoken, independent way, but his sister
takes after her mother's family ; she has that strange, still,
reticent way peculiar to the Abbots. I hope she may agree
with Lady Winterdyne, but I doubt it."

" Mother, I think it will be well if we do not speak of my

cousins ; if, in our conversation, we agree to

Ignore

their existence," said Will, with slight sternness. " I hoped
better things of this visit. Yes, I hoped that the mists
of years would be cleared away, but it was a mistaken
hope."

"Rachel Ayre has too grievously supplanted me in my
son's affection to be forgiven," Lady Emily said, as she sank
back in her seat. " But she can afford to despise and laugh
at me now."

Will Ayre looked through the open window of the carriage
on the sunny autumn landscape with a dark cloud on his
face.

" Why should you be so watchful over your cousin's wel-
fare ? " she pursued. " Suppose the worst, and that he lost
his life in the war, it could not matter much to you."

" Perhaps not. I was thinking of the place, mother.
We know Clemc t, and what manner of master he would
make. Of the distant heirs we know nothing," Will answered
in as matter-of-fact a tone as if he had been discussing some
neighbour in whom they had but a trivial interest. His
mother answered nothing, but her face grew ashen grey a
she listened, and she press, ed her handkerchief to her pale
lips to still their trembling.

She was to be pitied.

li!'; i'

lit

!^f

I'i

232

T/ie Ayres of Studleigh.

The certainty that his life would be short had been so long
with Will that, like other familiar things, it had ceased to
concern him much. He forgot for the moment that what
seemed in truth only a slight hardship to him, since he could
never have a full and perfect earthly existence, was the
setting of the sun in his mother's life.

'■"Ct^*

k-1^' ft A *^i.'j;lw%i^ ^^

M't^i

CHAPTER XXVII.

ON ACTIVE SERVICE.

fj^EXT morning there were sad hearts left at
_i._Ji? Winterdyne and Stonecroft when the youn<;
j^i^l^l'^ soldiers went away. Lord Winterdyne ard
Norman accompanied them to Portsmoudi,
and watched the transport ship leave. It earned a egi-
ment of five hundred men, with officers and servants > ar.d
was the first instalment of the reinforcements for which the
Commissioner of Natr.l had asked. The parting, though
sorrowful, was not haunted by much serious misgiving, the
outbreak at the Cape not being considered in the light of
a serious war. It is difficult for those at home to realise
that, when we have carried civilisation and peaceful pursuits
into our colonies, we have also not failed to teach the
natives of each new country the art of war. Clement Ayre
was in wild, exultant spirits, as well he might be with
such prospects as he had in view. The love of a high-
born, well-dowered and gentle girl, and opportunity almost
within his reach of proving himself worthy of her, were
calculated to rouse his highest enthusiasm. As Raybourne
and he paced the deck of the troopship day after day, as
she sped towards the port where her arrival was so ardently
looked for, Clement's talk was more of the dangers and the
battles he hoped to share with his comrades than of the

Ji!

234

The Ayres of Studleii^h.

dear ones he had left behind. Harry, on the contrary,
seldom spoke of them, but showed in his absent, preoccu-
[)ied demeanour that his thoughts were more of home.

" I don't understand you, Harry," Clem said to him one
day, as they lounged together with their pipes under the
awning on the deck. " If I didn't know what stuff you
were made off, I should say you were inclined to show the
white feather. Do you regret having volunteered to go
where glory waits you ?'

Raybourne laughed.

"It isn't that, but I tell you what it is, Clem, I feel a
trifle ({ucer about the whole business. I believe it 's going
to be a serious affair for me. 1 can't tell why."

Clement laughed loud and long. ".You Ve got the blues,
Hal, and are home-sick. I confess I feel a bit that way
myself, only I don't give way to it. Cheer up, man — ten
to one we are back in England for Easter."

"I hope so. This voyaging is a confoundedly slow
business anyhow," said Raybourne, raising himself and
looking somewhat wearily across the wide expanse of the
ocean shimmering in the hot glare of the sun. " Do you
know what I wish ? that I had married before we left."

Clem looked at him in open-eyed wonder.

"You want to knock things off without delay, and no
mistake," he said, comically. " It's a pity you didn't think
of it ; who knows but that Evy might have consented ?
You never know what girls will do. But why do you wish
that, old fellow ; don't you see we can both do the deed
together in old Peploe's church. We mustn't part company
on such an eventful occasion."

"No, certainly not — old Peploe " — said Raybourne,
abstractedly. " Oh, no, certainly not."

Clement took his pipe from his mouth, and reaching out
his long right arm gave his friend a vigorous shake.

" I say, Harry, are you well enough ? What do you

J.i

On Active Service. 235

mean? Shall I get Hcthcridge to prescribe a dose of
paregoric ? "

" I was just thinking that it would have made it all ri,i;ht
for Evelyn, supposing Pcploe had only road the service
over us that morning we left for I'lyniouth," Raybourne
went on. "You see she would be Lady Raybourne, with
her own jointure, which nobody could touch."

Clement put out his pipe, and laid it down on the deck.
There was a (lueer lump in his throat and a sort of sickness
in his heart, which ])revented him speaking for a moment.

"I'll punch your head, Harry ; upon my word I will," he
said, at length. " It is paregoric you want, and castor-oil,
and — and — the whole medicine chest poured into you.
I'm positive it 's your liver ; but I '11 go and ask Hethcridge
this minute."

"You needn't bother; you know as well as I do that I 'm
all right," said Harry, lazily, as he folded his arms above his
head. "There's nothing out of the way in what I am
saying. It may be a very remote contingency, but still it
tnight happen, Clem, that one, perhaps both of us, might
leave our bones to whiten in Zululand. Yes, I wish I had
done it. I suppose a fellow couldn't be married by proxy."

Clem never spoke, but got up and walked away. He felt
genuinely uncomfortable, miserable even ; there was some-
thing in all this which sounded too real and serious. He
had not a fear for himself; but as he pictured what it
would be if he had to return alone, he felt as if a cold
stream were pouring over him.

" If you feel like that, Harry, I wish you 'd go back in
this old tub on her return voyage," he said, when he
sauntered back again. " I really wish you would, old
fellow. You've made me awfully uncomfortable."

" I 'm sorry for that, though I don't see that I said any-
thing out of the way. Come back alone in this thing, did
you say? Not if I know it. You needn't think that it's
the assegais I 'm afraid of. It isn't that. But I wish I had

'ti

236

The Ayres of Studlcigh.

ii
k ,

.it;-

If I

thought of Evelyn sooner. You see we were both just
lotting things drift along, weren't we, until this marching
order brought us all to our senses?"

" I wish you wouldn't bother about Evelyn, Harry," said
Clem, speaking in earnest, too. "In that way, I mean.
Even supposing, even supposing — no, hang it, I won't
suppose anything, except that we shall go home triuinplv
antly with medals on our breasts. But what I meant to
say was that Evelyn will be very well off, supposing she
never married anybody. My mother is not exactly a poor
woman ; and, of course, if I fall, the place goes to Evy."

"Perhaps there would have been a selfishness; yes, ii
would have been selfish to ask her to take my name. Vou
see, after a while, she might want to marry some one else,
and that would be awkward, wouldn't it ? Yes, it was bcttt.r
to leave her free."

It was a long time before Clement Ayre got rid of the
uncomfortable feeling these words produced in his mind.
Even after the excitement of the march to the seat of war
they often recurred to him, with this same vague feeling
of dread.

In twenty-one days the Tamar touched at the Cape of
Good Hope, and three days later sailed into Durban
Harbour, amid the enthusiastic acclamations of the people,
to whom the arrival of substantial aid from England, earnest
of more to come, was like the very shining of the sun.
They lived in a state of fearfut dread and uncertainty,
knowing against what fearful odds the brave little Britisli
army had to fight, and fearful lest the dawn of any new day
might witness the triumphal descent of a horde of victorious
savages upon the hated and helpless Europeans.

The march to the Zulu border was begun at once. It
was beset with difficulties, for heavy rains had set in,
resulting in the flooding of the rivers and swamps, which
rendered progress, especially of the transport waggons, very
-slow and tedious. That march was a strange revelation,

On Actii'e Service.

237

not only to our two young soldiers, l)ut to all who liatl
hitherto regarded the war in Zululand as merely child's
play. It was a wild and ditTiciilt country to traverse, devoid
of roads, 'except the occasional deep tracks made by the
traders' waggons. High mountains, intersected by deep
ravines, in which the undergrowth was so thick that it
provided splendid hiding for the enemy, while the bush
itself, seemingly impenetrable to the unac<Histomed eye,
lent itself as a natural fortress to the children of the wilder-
ness, who had been reared in its midst.

'J owards sunset, on a hot, stilling day, Clement Ayre and
his friend were riding a little in advance of their company,
ill the direction of the broad river Tugela, which separated
the hostile country of the Zulus from Natal, which they
threatened to invade and annihilate. It had been a very
hot day, and now heavy masses of copper-coloured cloud
hung on the hori/on when the blood-red sun was slowly
sinking out of sight. During the past four-and twenty
hours no sign of the enemy had been seen, not even a stray
Zulu lurking in the bush, consequently the order of vigil-
ance had been slightly relaxed, and the troops were allowed
to move slowly, and in what order they pleased. It had
l)cen a long and toilsome march, and the soldiers were very
weary, and looking forward with some degree of impatience
to being allowed to light their camp fires and rest for the
night.

The Colonel in command, however, decided that the
river must first be crossed. The two friends were riding a
little in advance, as I said, and on the brow of a gentle hill
they paused and looked back. It was a picturesque sight,
the large, well-equipped regiment in their bright uniform,
the glittering trappings of the cavalry, and tiie long strag-
gling line of the transport waggons with their teams of
patient oxen. The landscape itself, seen from that slight
eminence, was not without its wild and rugged attractions.
The green thickets of the bush, relieved by many strange

|Bi

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238

77/^ Ay res of Stndlcigh.

flowers of novel shape and gaudy hue, the thorny spikes of
the giant cactus, the graceful aloe and mimosa, and the
swift-rushing river with its woody banks, all combined to
make a picture new and pleasing to their unaccustomed
eyes.

" It 's rather a pretty country, isn't it, Clem ? " said Ray-
bourne, carelessly.

" Beastly country for soldiering, I think," retorted Clem,
as his horse sent his foreleg into a broken swampy hole.
" Just look at that long string of heavy waggons, and then
forward at the ground we 've to go over. I tell you what,
Harry, if theie 's no other means of transport for supplies,
Cetewayo will easily keep the advantage he has got. It 's a
serious matter fighting a savage enemy in his own coum y."

" It 's rather exciting, though ; one never knows what is
to happen next," said Raybourne, with a smile. " It 's
amusing to see how these black Zulus pop up out of the
scrub and then disappear, goodness knows where. I sup-
pose they are their scouts and spies ; ugly fellows they are,
too"

"You're right. Glyn seems to think that we might have
a brush with them to-morrow. The enemy isn't far ahead,
and they say he is 20,000 strong."

Once more Raybourne glanced back at the troops toiling
wearily on, and a slight shadow '^rossed his face.

" I don't presume to set up an opinion, Clem, but don't
you think we 're not just exactly too fit to receive 20,000 in
a way we should like ? We are only a few hundreds. It
would be a good thing for us if we could come up with the
other columns before we fight."

" Oh, well, they are not very far away. It wouldn't be
difficult to send messengers to the camp at Ekowe, and I
heard the Colonel say this morning that Lord Chelmsford
could be only about ten miles in advance."

" Don't you remember, Clem, how persistently we were
taught concentration in our plans of campaign at Sand-

On Acth'e Sen' ice.

239

Ices of
id the
led to
itemed

i Ray-
Clem,
ly hole,
id then
u what,
applies,

It 's a

Duni y."

what is

"It's
t of the

I sup-
:hey are,

ht have
ahead,

toiling

3ut don't
10,000 in
eds. It
with the

ildn't be

Ive, and I

lelmsford

we were

I at Sand-

hurst? A handful of infantry and a few scores of cavalry
scattered here and there over a treacherous country like
this haven't a chance to boast of. That 's what I think."

"Cadets fresh from Sandhurst usually think their newly-
gotten wisdom as good as the experience of their elders,"
said Clem, with a laugh. " I 'm quoting Glyn. I said
something of the same kind to him yesterday, and he let me
down gently. All we have got to do is to shut up, Harry,
and do what we are bid. Supposing, now, that you were
the commander, what would you do ? Let me hear how
you would proceed."

" Well, I 'd find out immediately, by fair means or foul,
exactly where the enemy is, and what he is good or bad for.
Then I would gather my whole force together ; send a
column to watch the river, and prevent any of the enemy
crossing ; keep another in reserve to harass him in the
rear ; and march upon him till I forced him to fight in open
field."

" You can't force savages into fair warfare ; that 's where
the difficulty lies," said Clem, musingly. " Their cunning
teaches them that in their native fastnesses their strength
lies. They '11 pour out upon us from some confounded
ravine, perhaps, some night when we are in camp and
disarmed. Besides, they 're well armed. Doesn't it seem
an awful thing to you, Harry, that the Zulus should have
been provided with all the implements of war by our-
selves ? "

" Is that the case ? "

"Yes, I had a long talk with ('hard the other day before
we left him at Rorke's Drift. It seems that after the
diamonds were found in the South, native labour was
employed and paid for, at their own request, in guns and
rifles. Why, man, the thing carried its own meaning on
the face of it. It was awful folly, perfect madness on the
part of the Government to allow it — literally signing their
own death- war rau*" '"

Ih^

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240

T/ie Ay res of Studleigh.

" It was certainly a want of sense, if it 's true."
" It 's as true as gospel. How else could they be so well
armed ? I tell you there was a gun factory at Kimberley,
and the Kaffirs began the system of working foi firearms
and ammunition, and of course it soon spread from the
Colony into Zululand. We have no means of knowing
what reserve stores they have, but they must be enormous,
Chard says, for the trar)^ has been going on for years,
under the sanction of the government."

" I suppose they know how to use them, too ? "
" Trust them ; they 'd soon find that out. But I see
we 're going to call a halt, and I 'm not sorry, for I 'm both
tired and hungry, and I don't want to see Cetewayo's sweet
faces for another twenty hours at least. What are you
thinking of to make you look so sober, Harry ? "

"Oh, not of much. Isn't it odd, though, Clem, t'nat
your first campaign should be so like that Indian business
which cost your father his life ? "

'f^^bi7»--="' ■"*

CHAPTER XXVIII.

iSANDHLWANA.

IJARLY next morning an order was received from the
Commander to march on to Isandhlwana, and on
I the mountain go into camp. The summit had
been explored and found suitable for the purpose.
The enemy was supposed to be in the near vicinity, although
keeping hidden, his presence not betrayed even by a stray
shot. This fact somewhat allayed the anxieties of the in-
vaders, because they thought it proved that the numbers
must have been greatly exaggerated. It seemed an impos-
sibility that so vast a force could be so successfully and so
completely hidden, even though the wild nature of the
country lent itself admirably to such manoeuvres. The
camp at Isandhlwana was situated on a mountain which
commanded an unbroken view of the surrounding country,
and whose weakest point for attack was a narrow neck on
the western side, crossed by a waggon road. So complete
was their ignorance of the enemy's movements, that im-
mediately the camp was struck the column divided, and a
part under Colonel Glyn advanced to assist in attacking a
place called Matvana's stronghold, where the Zulus were
supposed to be entrenched.
The utmost security prevailed in the camp, and the troops

IfF

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" 3 1, t

"'■•H|i

242

71^^ Ay res of Studleigh.

being infected by the apparent unconcern of their officers,
were glad to rest and amuse themselves after the toils of the
march across the broken and swampy groun on the
Zululand side of the river Tugela. About nine o'clock, a
scouting party was sent out to scour the adjacent country in
search of the enemy, and returned before the dinner hour,
reporting nothing in sight. The whole company then settled
themselves to wait in a state of readiness, however, ex-
pecting an hourly order to advance to the assistance of the
Commander, whom they supposed to be engaged with the
enemy about twelve miles distant. Clement Ayre, with
some other ardent spirits, was chafing at the inaction o*"
the day, and impatient for the order to advance, little dream-
iiig that it was reserved for them to contend against the
whole body of the Zulus. Phe day passed quietly by, and
the dull heavy night fell without giving warning of the
awful tragedy the dawn of another day was destined to
witness.

" I say, Clem, are you asleep ? " Raybourne whispered,
leaning over his comrade at the dead of night.

Yes, Clem was sound asleep, with his arm under his
head, an ' his face upturned to the lowering sky. Rayl)ourne
sat up, and leaning his elbows on his knees, let his head
drop on his hands, and gave himself up to thoughts of home.
He was strangely wakeful, every sense seemed sharpened to
its keenest capacity — he could hear the soft, cautious tread
of the furthest outpost as he moved to and fro to keep
himself from feeling drowsy. As a rule Raybourne was of
a solid, even temperament, not given to excitement or freaks
of imagination, yet for many days past his usually calm
mind had been filled with strange forebodings, which he
could not understand. Although they were on the eve of
an engagement with a vast and savage army, he was not
visited by fear of personal consequences, nor any wish to
draw back. He did feel, however, that this campaign w.s
to have important issues for him ; again and again he pas-

handhhvana.

243

sionately regretted having left England without making
Evelyn Ayre his wife. His thoughts in that strange, solemn,
midnight stillness were wholly of her and of home. Perhaps
his was not a very brilliant intellect ; perhaps he had dis-
appointed the proud hopes with which his father and mother
had welcomed his birth, but he was a good, honest, true-
hearted soul, who, at four-and-twenty, could look back upon
the white page of an unblemished youth, in which there
was nottiing of which he, or any belonging to him, had need
to be ashamed. How many of the hot and restless hearts
slumbering under the midnight stars on that African
mountain side could have said as much? AftC' a time he
forgot his surroundings, the measured tread of the sent.ies,
and the pawing of the horses, seemed to die away, and he
saw only the sweet landscapes of his English home, and the
dear faces of those he loved. And then came to Harry
Rayne a sudden, swift intuition, which told him that the
very nearness to him, the vividness of his vision, signified
that they and he should meet on earth no more. It was a
strange experience, a vague uncertainty suddenly becoming
a certainty in his mind, and the strangest part of it all was
that he felt no inclination to rebel, but a deep sense of
peace and calmness, just as if all difficulties and anxieties
had come to an end. So while an anxious mother wa'S
lying awake on her bed at home, the boy for whom she was
praying bowed his head and prayed too, the f.;st time,
perhaps, in his short, metry, uneventful life that Raybourne
prayed in real earnest, because it was the first and only
time he had need of prayer. Then he lay down beside
Clement in the tent, and sle[)t till the reveille sounded
at daybreak. And almost immediately a mounted mes-
senger rode in hot haste into the camp with the intelligence
that the enemy was within a few miles, and advancing on
the camp. This rumour was, however, disbelieved, and
immediately after breakfast a forwp'-d uiovciT'ent was made
by an officer and a detachmen*- of native troops to investi-

244

T/ie Ay res of SUidleigh.

^\K

J';

klL

gate the cause of the alarm. Meanwhile, however, the
camp held itself in readiness for attack, and each officer
and man was busy seeing that their arms and ammunition
were in order.

"I do believe, Clem, that on the whole it was wiser to
leave Evelyn free," said Raybourne, as they sat together on
a grey boulder.

Clement stared at him in astonishment, mingled with the
concern which had never wholly left him since their talk on
board the Tamar. His mind was so full of the stirring
interest of the hour, on the qui 7nve for marching or fight-
ing orders, that he could not understand what he thought
Harry's day-dreaming and home-sick fancies. And yet who
more manly or more sensible on all points than honest
Harry Rayne ? Again that keen diill seemed to pierce
Clem to the heart.

At that moment, however, the sound of firing in the
distance caused them to leap to their feet, and in an instant
every thought but the peril and excitement of imminent
battle was banished. A detachment of mounted Basutos
under Colonel Durnford had gone out to reconnoitre, and,
coming unexpectedly on a Zulu regiment, had immediately
opened fire ; and it then became evident that the whole
body of the enemy was present in overwhelming numbers,
ready for action. When this message was brought into the
impoverished, slender camp on Isandhlwana mountain a
feeling of utter dismay filled each heart, and made even the
bravest quail.

"You were right, Harry; somebody's blundered here,
just as somebody did at Balaclava," said Clement, as they
hurriedly obeyed their Colonel's orders to prepare for
instant action.

" Well, old boy, our first taste of battle will be a bloody
one. If we both fall it will go hard with them at home."

He rubbed his hand across his eyes, and under his
moustache his firm lip trembled.

€

handhhvana.

24S

"Clem, I'll be done for. I've known it all along," said
Raybourne, quietly. " If ^ ju should ever reach England,
tell Evy I died with her name on my lips, and that I loved
her to the last. But say to her, too, dear fellow, that if the
time ever comes when she can marry somebody else, she
must not let any memory of me stand between."

" Hush, hush, I can't bear it. I won't go home without
you. Our bones can bleach together, as you said on board
the Taviar. Here are the black fiends pouring forward !
God bless you, Hal, good-bye."

They clasped hands a moment, the last clasp, and looked
into each other's eyes. The next moment they parted, to
.xieet no more on earth.

It seemed as if for the moment officers and men be-
came demoralised, and no attempt whatever was made to
strengthen the camp, or even to concentrate what slender
force they possessed to meet the enemy. At length, how-
ever, a company was sent to the waggon road to intercept
and check the rapidly advancing enemy. The sight which
met the eyes of that battalion, as they set themselves in the
order of battle, might well have filled them with dismay.
The broken and undulating ground beyond the neck of the
mountain was literally alive with Zulus, not scattered here
and there in patches, but gathered in firm, solid masses, and
advancing with a strange, determined steadiness, not in ac-
cordance with the usual methods of savage warfare. It
might almost have seemed that the order of things was
reversed, and that the discipline and careful concentration,
thrown to the winds by the British, had been seized and
taken advantage of by Cetewayo and his officers. Slowly,
but with deadly surety, they crept for vard to surround the
mountain and h^m in the little camp. Jt was impossible to
spaie detachments to guard every approach, their efforts
being chiefly required before the camp, which a large regi-
ment of Zulus v«£S trying to storm. Raybourne, on account
of his intimate ./iendship with the Colonel who commanded

i\' H

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546

T/ie Ayres of StucHetQh.

the company guarding the waggon road, volunteered to go
with him, and the last Clement saw of his friend was when
he turned round at the bend of the hill, and gave him a
parting wave. After that each had enough to do looking
after himself.

"I wish, my boy, you would keep back rather," said the
Colonel, riding up to Ray bourne as they neared the road.
" From what I can see our chances here are small. Ride
back yet, you may escape by the river. If you want an
errand I'll send a despatch by you to Rorke's Drift to warn
Uromhead and Chard." ,

Raybourne shook his head. The excitement of battle
was upon him, the thought of retreat hateful. Yet he was
grateful for his Colonel's thougntful consideration, and said
so in an earnest word. " Your father would expect me to
keep you from certain death at least," was all the Colonel
said as he rode away, and in ten minutes more the figlit
began. From the first it was a forlorn hope ; for, although
the Zulu firing was ill-directed and ineffective in comparison
with that of their opponents, still their immense numbers
were bound to carry the day. They came pouring up the
narrow neck and across the waggon road, which was already
strewn with the dead, and throwing aside their guns and
rifles used the familiar and deadly assegai in a fierce hand-
to-hand conflict, which, however, could have but one end-
ing. It was not "a fair fight on an open field," but simply
wholesale butchery of brave men, who deserved a better
fate. The company which had so nobly endeavoured to
repulse the enemy's first advance was cut down to a man.

Meanwhile matters were but little better at the camp on
the hill. The same lamentable want of cohesion was
visible. Even a small force, if formed into an impenetral)le
mass, might have at least kept the camp until the General
or other reinforcements came to their aid. But the com-
panies were scattered about, and fell an easy prey to the
victorious enemy. There was something gruesome in the

!j^ H

tsandhhvana.

247

strange silence with which the dark masses advanced, and
in the deadly manner in which they literally hewed their
way to the summit of the hill where the camp was situated.
It was so different from the usual demonstrative and noisy
fighting of savages that it appeared to help their success.
But the moment the British gave signs of retreating, and
began to flee before them towards the river, their stolidity
vanished, their pent-up hatred and vindictiveness found vent
in savage yells ; and, throwing all military discipline to the
winds, the naked hordes rushed on with their horrible
assegais out in the air, and dealing death to every white
man. Scarcely a soldier of the infantry escaped. It would
not have fared much better with the mounted men had they
not been quick to take advantage of a slight disjunction in
the enemy's lines, which enabled them to gallop across the
open space and reach the Tugela river, to the very banks of
which they were pursued, some, indeed being killed on the
way. The Zulu firing was so badly aimed that they were
enabled to ford it, and gain safety on the other side. Then
they drew breath, and that melancholy handful stood still a
moment and looked at the devastated camp and the hillside
reeking with the slain.

" Not a man rose who went to the waggon road with the
24th," said one, as he wiped the bloody sweat from his
brow. " They must have been cut down to a man. God
knows, somebody is to blame for this morning's work."

" Did any of you see Raybourne ? " Clement Ayre asked,
in a low voice, which had a ring of hopelessness in it.

"Not since he went off with the 24th. I expect he'll
be lying amon^^ the rest yonder. Where are you going,
Ayre ? "

"Off to Rorke's Drift to warn them there. We can't
forget that only one camp remains between yon victorious
horde and the colony. It must be held at any cost," he
answered, and giving spurs to his horse rode rapidly away.

" Brave young fellow that ; more forethought than some

;']:);

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11;=

./)

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248

The Ayres of Studleigh.

of them in higher places," said the man who had first
spoken.

" Ay, he comes of a good stock. His father was killed
at Delhi in the mutiny keeping the gate against awful odds.
I 've heard my uncle tell the story. Ayre will be right sorry
if that chum of his is killed. Engaged to his sister, they
say. But I say, we 'd better get out of this I "

Ay, poor Raybourne ! In a stately English home, round
a happy breakfast table, they spoke his name that morning
in accents of love and hopeful pride, not dreaming that
even while they were speaking he lay dead, with his face
upturned to the leaden sky, and an assegai thrust through
his honest heart.

;"»■:. I

1\^

CHAPTER XXIX.

rorke's drift.

HILE these terrible events were transpiring
at Isandlhvvana, the Httle company left in
charge of the camp at Rorke's Drift were
inapprehensive of any danger. They had
charge of the commissariat stores, and had also tiiirty-five
sick in hospital. The camp was situated in the vicinity of
a tra:*; of bush which, unfortunately, had not been cut
down, and so favoured the approach of the enemy, as it
ahnost completely hid them from sight. Shortly after
dinner on that eventful day two men were seen gallo[)ing
furiously from Zululand, and at the river bank made frantic
signs to be taken over. The ferryman hastened to the Zulu
side, and was immediately horrified by the news of the
disaster at Isandlhwana.

"The camp must be held," said Clement Ayre with that
decision which showed the intrepid soldier and the self-
reliant man.

" Ride on to Helpmakaar," he added to the private who
had accompanied him, "and hurry up reinforcements."

"Will you stay here?" asked the ferryman, looking with
admiration at the stalwart young figure, and the square,
resolute face.

!'-

250

The Ay res of Studlcigh.

t\\

ii>.

** N'cs, of course'. Hurry u[), man. Ah, there's P.rom-
head I l-'rij^'hlful news, old cliap. VVc 're totally defeated.
Only about a score of us left to tell the tale, and they're
niarthin^' on to Rorke's Drift. What 's to be done ? Can
we keep them out till help comes?"

" It must be done," Ijromhcad answered quietly, and
Clement saw his right hand involuntarily clench.

'•How many men have you?" Clement asked, as he
leaped from the boat to the lieutenant's side.

"'I'here's about two hundred of us, if they stay," said
liromhead, significantly.

"Well, Daniclls, what is it?" he added, seeing the ferry-
man wanted to speak.

"Couldn't we moor the punt in the river and fight a few
of us from the deck ? ^\'^e might send some of the l)lack
fiends to the bottom, and anyway keep them back for a
while?"

The lieutenant shook his head. "You are a brave
fellow, Daniells, but it can't be done. Haul up the punt,
and come up to the entrenchment. How far distant are
they, do you suppose ? " he added to Clement.

" I may have an hour's advance of them, no more."

" An hour ? " Bromhead's head went down on his breast
as he took long strides towards the camp. By the time
they reached it his j)lan of action was laid. He suggested
that a detachment of horsemen should go out to meet the
enemy, in order to delay their advance, and so give time
for further strengthening the camp ; but his suggestion was
declined — the men refused to obey orders, and a hundred
of them rode off to Helpmakaar.

A peculiar smile crossed the face of the brave lieutenant,
thus left with a very handful to protect the camp.

" We 're a hundred and four, all told, now, not including
thirty-five in hospital," he said, grimly. "Let's to work."

The intrepid soldier did not lose a moment, but gave his
orders with surprising speed and precision. The store

Rorlrs Drift,

251

building and the liosjjital were barricaded, loopholes left
for shooting on the enemy. When the other contingent
deserted the camp, lieutenant Chard at once saw that the
line of defence they had planned and begui; was too
elaborate and scattered for the few who could defend it ;
but he was ready with another suggestion.

"We must make a wall of the biscuit-tins, and strengthen
it with mealie bags," he said, with a cool smile, and all
hands set to work immediately to carry out his suggestion.
There was something intensely pathetic in these slight and
feeble preparations, made with such cool determination, but
when the first shot was heard in the distance, a strange
thrill ran through every heart. 'I'he two officers in charge
exchanged glances full of significance. Clement Ayre,
impulsive and outspoken as usual, put his thoughts into
words —

" Do you think it '11 stand?" he asked, gravely.

"No, but it'll give us a chance to sell our lives dearly,"
Bromhead announced, quietly. " And if we can but keep
the attention of the enemy until the General comes u{) we
may save Natal."

" He must have heard by this time of Isandlhwana," said
Clement, and then they said no more, for when men are
face to face with death, though their minds are busier and
fuller perhaps than in any previous i)art of their existence,
they do not care to express what they think and feel in
words.

"You've jumped out of the frying-pan into the fire,
Ayre," said Bromhead, with a faint smile. "On a horse
in open ground you had a chance, here you have none ;
but we '11 do our duty."

" Ay, ay, look yonder ; are we ready to meet then) ? "

It was now half-past four, and the wall had only been
built two boxes high, forming a sorry sort of redoubt at
best, when a band of Zulus were seen advancing at a run
upon the camp. Nothing more perfect than the coolness,

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The Ay res of Studhigk.

more heroic than tlie instant action of these intrepid men,
who held the fate of Natal by a slender thread, was ever
known in history. Every man was at his post — every hand
steady at the guns ; not a moment, not a chance of advan-
tage, was lost, and the first fire made havoc in the ranks.
But they rushed on, maddened by their success, over the
fallen bodies of their comrades, and dashed round thr
hospital to the other side where the redoubt was weakest
There they were met by a handful of the brave garrison,
who gave them a taste of the British bayonet, which i)iit
their assegais to shame. It was a desperate struggle, iii
which several were wounded, but each place was filled as it
became empty by men who were assisting to defend the
hospital in front. For at least eight hours this terril)le
siege continued, the hospital was burned down, and, some-
what disheartened, the gallant little company retired into
the centre of their entrenchments, feeling that unless the
besiegers should desist or help arrive they must either
surrender or allow themselves to be cut down at their posts.

Early in the siege Clement Ayre received a flesh wound
in the left arm, which, though very painful, did not kcej)
him from fighting. He fought, indeed, like a lion. More
than once Bromhead looked at him in wondi.r, admiring
his coolness and intrepid daring, which made him expose
himself in the very hottest forefront of the batde, and
seemed to nerve his arm with extraordinary strength. To-
wards midnight the firing from without became less frequent
and less sustained, and a feeble hope began to flicker in the
breasts of those who had held that desperate position. Not
a word was spoken, but each ear strained for the next
volley ; each heart was secretly conscious of relief as the
intervals became more and more prolonged. They felt
certain that daybreak at least would bring them the longed-
for aid.

Meanwhile the General and his . jrces were about ten
miles in advance of Isandlhwana, believing that they were

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Rorke's Drift.

253

marching upon the great body of the enemy, who were
supposed to be hidden in the caves of a deep valley called
Matyana's Stronghold.

In the course of the day they had a slight brush with a
party of Zulus, who kept them in amusement while the
king and his great regiments were cutting to pieces the
brave little force on Isandlhwana Hill.

Early in the forenoon a note was received from the out-
posts in the rear, saying that firing had been heard from
the direction of the camp they had left, and the General
instantly despatched one of his lieutenants to the top of a
high hill with a powerful telescope, to see if he could
observe anything unusual in the neighbourhood. After
about an hour's close observation he returned with the
information that he could see nothing but the cattle being
driven into camp. By this time not a vestige of the enemy
could be seen, and after a hasty conversation, the General
ordered the troops to bivouac where they were for the
night, and started himself at the head of the mounted
infantry for Isandlhwana. Although they were in some
uncertainty and anxiety, they had not the slightest prevision
of the fearful events of the day, and certainly no idea of the
desperate struggle then going on at Rorke's Drift. Within
two miles of Isandlhwana they halted, and sent an officer to
reconnoitre. He returned shortly with the news that an
awful disaster had taken place, and that the enemy held the
camp. A despatch was sent off in hot haste to the troops
encamped six miles off, and at six o'clock in the evening
they came up with the advance. Then steadily, but with
the utRiOSt force and precision, nerved with the thirst for
revenge on the cruel foe who had destroyed their comrades,
they moved forward to retake the camp. It was speedily
and splendidly done, and before nightf^iU the Zulus were
completely routed, and abandoned their position. One
thought filled the mind of each — the vision of the little
camp at Rorke's Drift was before every eye ; but it was

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7!^^ Ayres of Studleigh.

impossible, with exhausted men and animals, to proceed to
its relief before a needful rest was obtained.

Night fell on a strange and weirdly awful picture. The
desolated camp, the dead bodies of the slain, with their
pallid faces upturned to the sky, the dead horses and oxen
scattered everywhere, and the weary, dispirited soldiers
trying to snatch their precious repose among such strange
surroundings, and uncertain what an hour might bring
forth ; none who took part in that sad bivouac would be
likely to forget it.

At dawn of day they were on the alert once more, and
hurried on to Rorke's Drift. The feelings of officers and
men alike could not be easily described as they pushed
forward, scarcely daring to expect anything but the worst.
The enemy had all night long kept up a harassing, thougli
irregular, firing on the camp at Rorke's Drift. About day-
break it entirely ceased, only, however, to be renewed an
hour or two later. About seven o'clock the brave officers
met in brief consultation. They were all exhausted, and,
unless help came from Helpmakaar, or the General himself
should arrive, there would be no hope.

" It 's all up with us," said Bromhead, rather gloomily, for
it seemed hard, after the desperate fight they had made,
that they should be ultimately destroyed. " See yonder,
the Zulus again advancing in a body."

"The ammunition is all done, so it'll be hand to hand
this time,'' said Clement Ayre. "Well, we '11 sell our lives
dearly. We '11 let them see how the British can fight."

" You 'r^ right about the Zulus, old fellow, but, unless I 'rn
mistaken, yondc's the buff coats of the 24th," said another,
gleefully. " Hurrah, we 're .saved, it 's the General himself."

A few minutes later the camp was the scene of lively
excitement The General's face was radiant as he shook
hands with the brave soldiers, and his words of praise were
generous and sincere.

"You are the first lo win the Victoria Cross in this

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Rorkes Drift.

255

campaign," he said, heartily. " There is no doubt that you
have saved Natal."

He spoke truly. But for that gallant, intrepid defence
the enemy must have poured its hordes into the colony, and
carried destruction in its train.

It was a brave deed bravely done — another bright page
added to the page of British history. In th.^ fearful
excitement and strain of the siege none had had time to
think of suffering or wounds, but it soon became evident
that some were suffering severely. Among these were
Clement Ayre, whose wound was occasioning him such keen
pain and feverishness that he was ordered into hospital at
once.

" Can anybody tell me what became of Raybourne who
was attached to Glyn's column ? " he asked the surgeon who
came to attend him.

" I '11 find out. Be still, sir. If you don't keep yourself
quiet it '11 go hard with you. It 's an ugly cut."

" Never mind it. I want to know what became of Ray-
bourne. If he 's dead it will be an awful business for his
people."

" He isn't the only one, my boy. Kee[) (juiet, I tell you.
How can I do anything, while you 're wriggling about like
that?"

" Is it a dangerous wound ? "

" Not in the meantime, but it '11 trouble you a bit, maybe.
It should have been attended to sooner. When did you
get it ? "

" Yesterday, some time just after they set the hospital on
fire. I had to help to keep 'em back till they got the sick
fellows safely out. It was an exciting business, but 1 believe
I hewed a few of them down."

"Well, that '11 do. Drink this now, and I 'II inquire after

your friend. I 'II ask the General, if need be ; but if you

haven't seen him I douljt it 's all up with him, poor fellow."

The surgeon nodded and went off to make his inquiries.

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T/ie Ay res of Studleigh.

but by the time he had learned the few unsatisfactory
particulars his patient was off his head and muttering about
things far removed from Rorke's Drift and its deadly peril.
The surgeon smiled sadly as he laid a cooling cloth on his
head. He was not the only one who in his fever spoke the
sweet name of " the girl he left behind him."

CHAPTER XXX.

THE NEWS AT HOME.

I HERE has been a. frightful disaster in Zululand,
Will — a total defeat of our troops."

Lady Emily Ayre uttered these words as her
son entered the breakfast-room one morning in
January.

"Are there any particulars or names?" he asked, with
that quick, eager concern he always exhibited when the
soldiers or their doings at the Cape were spoken of.

"None, except that the 24th took part, and that about a
thousand are killed."

"A thousand," repeated Will, in dismay. "And no
names given. What frightful suspense they will endure this
morning at Stonecroft and Wintcrdyne."

He took the paper his mother had laid down, and ran his
eye over the brief despatch which had already sent a thrill of
agony to many hearts. It was short and unsatisfactory, as
the first despatches after an engagement usually are, and
served only to suggest to the mind the possibilities involved.
But in another day all anxiety would be set at rest.

" Has it taken away your appetite. Will ? " Lady Emily
asked, observing that he left his plate untouched. " Ray-
bourne and your cousin may have escaped — in fact it is

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TJie Ay res of StiidleigJi.

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most like. • <^hcy have, as they were too inexperienced to be
pushed to the front."

Will smiled at this suggestion.

" Inexperience is not taken into consideration at such a
time. I fee^ very anxious, es[)ecially, though I don't know-
why, on Raybourne's account. It seems to have been a
desperate fight ; the camp was totally surrounded."

" Well, I 'm sure, I see no benefit to be got from carrying
on wars in savage countries, and sacrificing so many lives,"
said Lady Emily. " What is the end and aim of it all ? "

*'To protect the settlers at the Cape, of course," returned
the Squire. " Mother, I cannot rest. I must ride over to
Stonecroft this morning, and see whether they have learned
any further particulars."

" You can't ride on a bitter cold morning like this. If
you will go you must drive. If you like to take the
brougham, and leave me at Winterdyne, I will accompany
you ; but are they home from the l^^ast ? "

"Yes; they returned last week."

" You always know their movements," said his mother,
with a slight hardness in her voice. " It is you who ought
to have been in the East, I think. Will you not go even
yet to please me ? "

There was genuine anxiety in her look as she asked the
question. There was not much change in Will to outward
seeming, but his mother's nervcus eye detected a greater
delicacy of outline and a general languor of movement,
which filled her with a vague alarm.

" Mother, I don't know if it is always wise to run away
from Studlcigh in winter. I believe it makes one more
susceptible to cold. I have never Ijeen better than this
winter I have spent at home,'' he said, cheerfiilly.

" I have been tormenting myself for some days thinking
you are not well, Will," slie said, with a solicitude which
made her face lovely.

"It is just imagination, mother, dear. I assure you I

The News at Home.

259

am perfectly well. But I will drive this morning to please
you, if you will do something to please me."

" What is that ? "

" Call at Stonecroft with me before you go up to Winter-
dyne. You know that by taking a little curve in the road
we can drive past the gates."

" What should I do at Stonecroft, Will ? It might please
you, but I question if it would please anyl)()dy else. If
Mrs Geoffrey should be in troiible, I am but an indifferent
sympathiser, I am afraid."

"You are very hard on yourself, mother. You can be
very kind and gentle when you like. Shall I order the
brougham to lie ready in an hour ? "

" How long will it take us to drive to Winterdyne ? "

" An hour and a half to Stonecroft, mother ; ten minutes
more to Winterdyne."

Lady Emily laughed outright. "To Stonecroft be it,
then. You always have your own way," she said, plea-
santly. " But you must be answerable for the conse-
quences."

Will Ayre long remembered that drive along the bare
and wintry roads that January morning as the pleasantest
he had ever shared with his mother. There were times
when they were very happy together, when she showed to
him only her motherly and womanly side ; times when even
Will, with his high ideal, missed no attribute in his mother
which he could wish her to possess.

Although Stonecroft was l)ut a small property, it was
approached by a very long, imposing avenue, lined with
stately beech trees. A pretty ivy-covered lodge guarded
^oe entrance gates, and when the carriage stopped the
woman. ran out at once.

"There is no one at home, sir," she said, with a curtsey,
recognising the Squire at once.

" No one at home ? I thought Mrs Ayre returned last
week?"

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260

T/ie Ayres of Stiidleigh.

" So she did, sir, for two nights ; then her and Miss Evy
went away to Blundell on a visit to Sir Randal and Lady
Vane." ^v

" You don't know when they are to return, I suppose ?"

" No, sir. Mrs Ayre was to write when she was coming."

Will looked disappointed, and, thanking tlie woman,
bade the c "chm- • drive on to VVinterdyne.

"Your a ^ ' 'ds a gay life, and she appears to have
troops of frr Lady Emily remarked, as they drove

away from the ;_i,ate.

" If there is bad news, it will reach them as quickly at
Blundell as anywhere, I suppose," Will said, absently. " I
wonder whether they have any news at Winterdyne?"

A kind of sil<,'nce fell upon them, and they spoke very
little as they drove rapidly along the broad highway to the
great gates of Winterdyne. They were wide open, and the
unostentatious brou^';ham from Studleigh passed through
without being observed. But when they swept round to
the front of the fine old house, and saw every window
darkened, a thrill of horror seemed to pass to their hearts.

Almost before the carriage stopped, Will alighted and
ran up the steps to the hall door.

"What has happened? Is there bad news from the
Cape ? " he asked the servant, who threw open the door.

" Yes, sir," said the man, in a subdued tone. " We 've
lost our young lord."

" Lost him ! He is not dead ? " cried Will Ayre,
incredulously.

" Dead, sir. Shot and stabbed by these beastly Zulus.
I beg pardon, sir, but we were all so fond of Lord Ray-
bourne, and it 's mighty hard upon every one of us, that 's
all."

The man drew his hand across his eyes, and his voice
took a huskier tone.

" When did the news come ? " demanded Will, not

The Neivs at Home,

261

noticing that his mother had left the cariage, and was Hsten-
ing to every word.

" Only this morning, sir. Somebody telegraphed to his
lordship, and then the papers came with the list."

" Are the family at home ? "

" Only his lordship and Lord Norman, sir. Lord Ray-
bourne now, I should say. Her ladyship and Lady Sybil
are at Blundell visiting Lady Vane."

" Could we see Lord Winterdyne, do you think ? " asked
Lady Emily, quickly.

" I — I don't think so, my lady, but I '11 inqui''^ He is
very much broken down. It came so unexpec*, 'd . ind it
was so cruel."

" It is, indeed, terrible," said Will, huskily.

" Did you say the list was out ? Is there no .ie:\tion of
Lieutenant Ayre ? "

" No, sir, not that we 've heard, anyhow, a you '11 come
in, please, I 11 tell his lordship you are here."

He ushered them into the darkened drawing-room, drew
up one of the blinds a little way, and retired to tell his
master.

" Mother, is not this frightful ? It was always Clement
we feared for. Somehow Raybourne, with his easy-going
ways and strong common sense, seemed far removed from
danger," exclaimed Will, as he vestlessly paced to and fro
the room. " It will kill Lady Winterdyne."

" You do not know her. Will. She will bear it with
more fortitude than her husband. I cannot help thinking
most of all of your poor cousin."

" Do you mean Evelyn ? God comfort her. I think of
her too. It will be a fearful trial to her," Will replied,
hoarsely. " Mother, I cannot but wonder at the doings of
the Almighty. Why should Raybourne, in all his manly
strength, in the very outset of his usefulness, be taken and
I left ? "

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T//e Ay res of Studleigh.

His mother faintly smiled.

" 'I'he Almighty pities the loneliness and bitterness of a
widowed mother, Will, that is all," she answered, and ^or
a moment he felt himself rebuked. Perhaps in his warm
love for his cousins, he had not at all times given to his
mother the consideration to which she was entitled. Bo-
fore he could rei)ly the door was swiftly opened, and Lord
Winterdyne entered. They saw that he had received a
terrible blow. His hand, as he extended it to Lady Emily,
trembled like a leaf, and his face looked grey and worn in
the dim light.

"Dear Lord Winterdyne, this is fearful!" Lady Emily
said, with a quickness of sympathy which amazed Will.
" We had no idea. We ought not to have asked to see
you, but the news is so overwhelming. Will Adela have
heard this morning?"

" Oh, yes. I am just preparing to go to Blundell. I do
not quite realise it yet. It seems so short a time since the
boy left us, and he was so strong, so full of life."

Lord Winterdyne sat down as he spoke, and passed his
hand wearily across his brow. William Ayre looking on,
passionately wished that he had been able to offer up his
life instead of the brave young soldier upon whom so many
hoi)es were built. He was full of pity for the grey-haired
father, and yet he thought most of all of the fair girl who
had so soon lost the lover of her youth.

" It seems cruel to ask you particulars, Lord Winter-
dyne," he said, in a low voice. " But we know nothing.
We had not got the latest morning papers when we left.
Is there any news of my cousin ? "

" He is wounded, though not seriously. He escaped the
first massacre- — it was nothing less — and took part in the
defence of Rorke's I^rift. That will make the world
wonder when jiarticulars come to hand. Harry was shot
down early in the engagement. It seems he went forward
with Glyn trying to intercept the enemy at a narrow pass.

The Neivs at Home.

263

Later particulars may somewhat exonerate those in authority,
but in the meantime it must appear to all who read, that
our men were simply set up as targets for Zulu gun and
assegai."

He spoke with a bitterness which was excusable.

" My heart bleeds for his mother and for that poot girl,"
he said, beginning to walk to and fro to keel) down his
rising agitation. " I am thankful that we let no foolish
pride or prejudice stand in the way of his heart's desire,
and that he sought and won her love before he went away,
and yet, perhaps, it would have been better to have left
her fancy free "

*' No, no," said Will, impulsively. " 'Tis better to have
loved and lost," he added, with a sad smile.

" Well, well, perhaps so. 1 am glad to have seen you.
It relieves one's mind, and I was feeling terribly alone. I
shall be stronger to meet Lady Winterdyne and the poor
girls. I expect to reach Blundell about five o'clock. Yes,
I shall take your kind messages."

"Good-bye."

" It is hard for you ; but you have other children, Lord
Winterdyne," Lady Emily said, as she bade him good-bye.
" There will be many others who have lost their all, and
you have comfort in his stainless memory ; that is much."

" It is — it is everything. I know that will sustain his
mother as nothing else could. I believe I can truly say
that I am glad it is my son rather than Clement Ayre.
His mother has had many sorrows. Hitherto our life has
been singularly free. We must not rebel."

It was a fine spirit in which to accept so great a sorrow.
Lady Emily's eyes were wet as she hurried out to the
carriage.

" I had no idea, Will, that Lord Winterdyne could be so
unselfish," she said, when they drove away. '* It is a great
deal to say that he would give up his own son rather than
Clement, but I daresay he was thinking of Sybil, too."

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The Ayres of Studleigk.

" Probably. I hope Clem is not seriously wounded.
Aunt Rachel does not deserve that she should have any
more sorrow."

" I hope, I am sure, that his wound may be slight," said
Lady Emily, sincerely. " I think, Will, I have lived too
much to myself. Why do you shiver like that? Do you
feel a chill ? Let me have the window closed."

" It was nothing," he answered, quickly. " Mother, you
will go over to Stonccroft another day with me when Aunt
Rachel comes back."

"We shall see. If it will make you any happier, Will,
I mean to try in future to make more friendly relations
between Studleigh and Stonecroft."

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CHAPTER XXXI.

> .

A SOLDI KR'S TALK.

v^^:J\<\^ GAIN it was the leafy month of June. Again the
cwMkff roses hung in dewy clusters on the boughs ; again
IfW^"^ summer beauty and summer gladness filled the
land. A sad and painful tragedy had marked the
closing days of the war, and the nation was ^et mourning
the untimely death of the gallant Prince Imperial. His was
but one among many brave young lives sacrificed among
the wild plains of Zululand ; but the circumstances of his
death, and the peculiar desolation attached to his mother's
bereavement, marked it out for special notice. The war
was practically ove. Almost every day saw the arrival
of vessels with returning troops, and many anxious hearts
were relieved of their load of anxiety and care. On the
evening of the last day of June, a party of ladies were
gathered n the terrace at Winterdyne, and they were
evidently iri a state of expectation. Lady Winterdyne, in
her mourning gown, looked sweet and fragile ; the shock of
her son's death had told upon her sorely. Rachel sat by her
side, scarcely daring to allow her own happiness to siiow
itself, lest it should grieve the bereaved mother, to vvb.om
the home-coming they were awaiting must be a peculiar
trial. Our old friend, Lady Vane, white haired, and some-

266

Th.e Ayres of Studlcigh.

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what feeble, though still energetic and cheerful, sat a little
apart, watching the two girls walking arm in arm to and fro
on the lawn below. Conversation had flagged a little as the
time of arrival drew near — a visiijle agitation seemed to take
possession of each.

Presently the sound of wheels broke the silence. Then
Sybil broke from Evelyn's gentle, sisterly clasp and ran into
the house. Evelyn looked after her with a slight, sad smile,
and then ascending the terrace steps crossed to Lady
Winterdyne's chair and there stood still, with her hand on
her shoulder. There was something pathetic and significant
in that light, tender touch ; these two perhaps more than
all felt the desolation of Clement's solitary home-coming.
Rachel had demurred a little about making the occasion a
family gathering at Winterdyne, knowing full well that the
mother's heart mustache because of the one who "was not,"
but she had been gently overruled.

When the open carriage swept round the curve of the
avenue Rachel sprang to her feet, treml)ling in every limb.
Yes, there was her boy, sun-browned and vigorous looking,
standing up in the carriage waving his cap with his strong
right hand, though the other wounded arm was still in c.
sling. And in another moment she w^as clasped to his
heart, and heard his deep voice, tremulous with emotion,
uttering her name in accents of tenderest love.

"My poor Evy," Clem said, as he turned then to kiss his
sister, but Evelyn smiled bravely into his face, not wishing
to dim the joy of his home-commg by her tears.

Then Clement, with an exquisite grace, knelt on one
knee before his comrade's mother, and bent to kiss her
hand.

" Dear Lady Winterdyne, if it had been possible I would
have given my life for Harry, but the chance was not given
me. I have feared this meeting more than I can tell, and
when Lord ^^'interdyne met me, I was more than surprised :
it is so good of you all."

A Soldiers Tale.

267

"We must not be selfish," she said, with a sad, sweet
smile, and bending down she kissed his brow twice.

" My son's kiss as well as your own, Clem," she said,
tremulously. " You must try to fill his place. And now
we two mothers will spare you to Sybil."

She pointed to the drawing-room, and he sprang up, with
the red flush on his face, and disappeared.

" He looks splendid, Mrs Ayre ; do you not think so ? "
she asked.

"Yes; but I am disappointed to see his arm still
bandaored."

"Oh, that was a flesh wound. I can give you the
particulars," said Lord Winterdyne. "Ah, there is Evelyn
away, poor girl, poor girl, it is very hard for her."

The mother's heart overflowed for her child as she saw
her steal away towards the thick shrubbery which sloped
down to the river bank. Ay, Evelyn bad early taken up
her cross, and that with a fortitude and unselfishness which
amazed them all. There were even some who, observing
her calm bearing, said it had only been ambition which
moved her to accept the heir of Winterdyne ; but those
who knew her best could only look upon her grave, beauti-
ful face and tender mouth, and pray that God would give
the needed balm. It was known only to Rachel Ayre how
she suffered.

"Another wound," she said, with cjuick apprehension.
" We never heard of it. When did it happen ? "

"At Ulundi, the final battle. He was quite recovered,
and declined to go home, though leave was granted. I
suppose he wanted to be in at the death," said Eord
Winterdyne, grimly. "And, of course, fighting in the very
forefront as usual, he got a cut from an assegai which set
the old wound open. I tell you we have reason to be
proud of our hero, madam, f am, at least. It is not every
soldier who leaps from lieutenant to captain in so short a
time."

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The Ayres of SUidleigh,

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" Is he captain ? " Rachel asked, with a quick flush of
motherly pleasure and pride.

" Yes, and won the Victoria Cross as well. Rorke's
Drift did that. It was splendidly done. I only wish it had
been there my boy fell. He was simply murdered at
Isandlhwana, simply murdered. But I must not shadow
your joy, dear Mrs Ayre. I must remember what your
kinswoman at Studleigh reminded me of that day the news
came. I have two children left, and another son to take
poor Harry's place. If your son had not come home, you
would have been more desolate even than I."

"Did Lady Emily say that?" asked Rachel, in eager
interest.

" She did. I believe there is a refininr process going on
in her heart. I was greatly struck by her sympathetic
kindness that day. Her constant anxiety about her own
son is not without its uses. It makes her feel for others.
Ah, here he comes," said Lord Winterdyne with a smile, as
Clement again appeared. " We hardly expected you so
soon, sir. What has Sybil to say to her battered hcio,
eh?"

"A great deal more than he deserves," was Clement's
answer, as he came swiftly across to his mother's side.
" She has sent me back to you, mother, and would not say
another word to me."

" I don't suppose you realise what we women have
endured on your account during the last few weeks?" said
Lady Winterdyne, shaking her finger at him. *' Stand uj)
now, sir, and let us have a proper look at you. Well, you
look every inch a soldier ! What did Sybil say to the
wounded arm, and that scar on your cheek ? Did she-
want to draw back, eh ? "

Clement laughed, and that was a pleasant sound in his
mother's ears.

"No. I am afraid she is more concerned about these
trifles than I have ever been," he answered, lightly.

A Soldiers Tale.

269

" Mother, are you not even going to say that I have done
my duty ? "

He bent his eyes upon her sweet but somewhat care-
worn face, upon which the anxieties of the past few months
had left their mark.

" I expected that. No doubt of it ever crossed my
mind," she answered, and moving her head a Htde, rested
her cheek on his sun-browned hand lying on her shoulder.
He felt it wet with her tears. " I am glad my son is so
worthy of his father."

" Yes, if he liad lived he would have been a proud man
this day," said Lady Vane, emphatically. " Now, have you
anything exciting to tell us t What al^out the poor prince ?
His poor mother's lonely grief will silence many grumb-
lings. What a fearful thing it was. Did you know him,
Clement ? "

"Ye3. He was very frank. He made himself one of
us ; and there is not a soldier in the ranks who did not feel
that he had lost a friend."

*' What were they doing letting him wander in the very
midst of danger without any protection," demanded Sir
Randal, gruffly. "Just like their pig-headedness. Half
the misery in this world, especially in war times, is the
result of the want of common sense."

"Well, he was hardly supposed to be in the midst of
danger. The district was supposed to be pretty clear. He
was surprised by treachery, and missed his footing when
mounting his horse. His companions ran away. There
was no excuse for that. I think if I had been there I would
have risked my life for him. He was worth it."

Clement .spoke quietly, but with emotion.

" I believe you would, my boy," said Sir Randal, looking
with delighted approval on the young soldier's manly figure
and resolute face.

"He was a brave young fellow. Upon my word,

5ll

ill' : ^:^!

270

Tlie Ay res of Studleigh.

\-\

Winterdyne, it makes one feel that old England's day is
not over yet, to hear these young ones speak."

"Where's Evy, mother?" whispered Clement. ''How
has she been ? Poor Raybourne spoke of her that very
last morning. He thought of her perpetually."

Lady Adela leaned forward in her chair and lifted her
eyes to the young soldier's face.

" Tell us everything, Clement. We can bear it, and we
shall feel calmer after it. Tell us all you know.'

As he spoke Sybil came through the open window of the
library and sat down by her father on the stone parapet 'if
the terrace from the lawn below. Only Evelyn was absent
when Clem began to tell his story,

" I can't tell you anything about what happened to him
after we parted that morning in the camp at Isandlhw n.i,"
he began, " because I never saw him again, and nobody
came back from Durnforth's column to tell the tale. About
250 mounted men rode a mile and a half out to intercept
the Zulus at the waggon roaa and keep them from getting
near the camp, and they were cut off to a man. It was a
melancholy business all round. We had not much chance
against 20,000 desperate savages, and from the moment of
attack we knew it was ^H up v.i'li w. '

"You had no defences, I sav i.om the papers. Not that
I ever expected you would have any," put in Sir Randal.
" That 's a mere circumstance, but go on. You stood out
in the open plain, and let the Zulus run at you. Wasn't
that about it ? "

" Be quiet, Randal," said his wife, percnij)torily. " Never
mind him, Clement ; you know his opinion of military
men and their tactics ; never mind him."

" Well, for once, he is not far wrong. Lady Vane,"
msw.ercd Clement, bluntly. " It did just amount to that.
P (OJ Harry, the ver • night befofe the engagement, said to
ine h<^. thcught wu were frightfully scattered, and would
i.MVo no chance ..gainst a concentrated enemy. The fight

!■

A Soldier's Tale.

271

at Isandlhwana didn't last more than an hour and a half,
and we had to flee in the end. The Buffalo River saved
the few who were mounted, for though ihey pursued us like
furies, the Zulus are poor marksmen, and shoot at random.
After we got over the river, I rode on to Rorke's Drift, to
warn them there. Happily I was in time ; we had about
an hour to prepare, and at half-past four they rushed on us,
but I needn't expatiate on that, you all read the accounts.
We kept the camp, and saved Natal, though I did not know
the result for weeks. I was fevered in hospiu. , and they
told me after I was pretty bad. I could have got home
after I was convalescent, but I wanted to see thi- 'i^nd of the
war, and I wanted, perhaps, more than all, 10 fmd out all
I could about poor Ray bourne."

"And what did you learn, Clement? " LadyjMfc. asked
with trembling lips.

" I am glad now that I thought of it, because I was abk-
to — to " — the young man's brave voice broke.

The brave heart, which iiad never quailed in iSk
desperate peril, was moved to the deaths over the
of his loved comrade's fall.

" After I got better, 1 went bad. .0 my regiment," Ism went
on, after a moment's painful silence. "And the next en-
gagement I was in was the fight pt the Zoblane mountains,
which was not unlike the Isandlhwana affiiir, th ,gh the
results were not serious. Two days later we bvat them
hollow at Kambula Camp. If you had seen the Zulus in
their thousands advancing straight on our fire you would
have thought it a grand sight. The artillery w n the day —
the victory v-'as undoubtedly theirs, and for a few weeks after
we saw little of the enemy, who seemed to have got a fright.
All the time I kept thinking of Isandlhwana, wondering how
I should manage to get there to see if I could get anything
to bring home. It was on the 17th of May we were
ordered forward to Rorke's Drift, and thence to Is. "dlhwuna,
for the purpose of bur) ing our dead,"

272

TJie Ayres of SUidkigh.

!!'

P '

" Four montho after they fell," put in Sir Randal. " Yes,
go on."

Clement paused a moment. Many, many times by the
silent, weird glow of the camp fire, and later in the nijrht
watches on board the homeward-bound Pretoria^ he had
pondered upon the words with which he should clothe his
sorrowful and somewhat gruesome tale.

"We arrived at the ridge overlooking the scene of the
battle about nine o'clock one morning, and found that
during the interval the grass had grown so tall on the slo})es
and in the valleys, that for a little while we could distinguish
nothing."

'*' Ay, ay, Nature had the sense of decency human beings
lacked," was Sir Pvandal's comment, while Lady Alice
covered her eyes with her hands, and sat very still.

" I don't want to linger on the scene," continued Clement,
hurriedly. " We did our work as promptly ar, we could,
and earned away what mementoes we could find. I found
Harry just where he tell, by the side of his horse, and 1
brought home all I thought you would prize."

He took from his breast-pocket a little packet, and
kneeling before Lady Winterdyne, opened it upon her knee.
The soldier's watch intact, in its hunting case, his breastpin
and two rings, together with a lock of his hair, were the
treasures Clement had rescued from that far-off burying
ground under the fierce African sun. "And two letters
which I saw him writing after we bivouacked the night
before — t'ne is lor Evy," said Clement, huskily. " That is
all 1 have to give, dear Lady Winterdyne. If I could have
saved him, I would."

The blessed tear.'j fell, fast from the bereaved mother's
eyes as she ^ooked upon these mementc^s of her boy ; but
the father rose un from his place and went away into the
bouse. They saw that he was quite overcome

They asked no more questions, nor did they realise what
an awful task Clement had undertaken, that he might be

A Soldiers Tale.

273

able to bring a little comfort to those at ho 1 e. He did not
say that the sight of that once blood-red field, with its dead
— unburied and decaying dead — was the only thing which
had blanched his face and sickened his heart since he
entered upon a soldier's chequered life.

When he saw the real comfort these precious relics were
to the bereaved hearts at Winterdyne, he did not regret it,
but felt glad that the opportunity had come in his way.

" VVe buried him decently there, he and the Colonel in
one grave. It is a lovely spot, Lady Winterdyne, for it is a
lovely country, though 1 never want to see it again. l\
month later we routed them utterly at Ulundi, and the war
came to an end," he said, as he rose to his feet. " It's not
much more than six months since we went away, but it
looks like twenty years, and I feel like an old man."

CHAPTER XXXII.

A WOUNDED HEART.

I '

SAY, mother, I can't make Evy out. What does
she really think about poor Ray bourne ?"

Clement asked the question when he came into
her room just for a little word before they parted
for the night.

" I aL- ; not sure, dear, that I can make her out myself.
She is very reserved. She has never opened her heart even
to me. But, I believe, she has talked more freely to Sybil
than to any one. You have won a dear, sweet girl, Clement.
I cannot tell you how I love her. She is as dear to me as
Evy herself- "

"/ think her perfect, mother," was the soldier's quick
response. "All the time at Rorke's Drift I thought of her,
and I believe the desire to be worthy of her, and have
something I need not be ashamed of to show for my love,
helped me as nothing else could "

" Nay, nay, the dauntless courage is yours by inherit-
ance," said the proud mother in gentle rebuke. " I am so
very thankful you were able to bring these little mementoes
of poor Raybourne,"

A Wotinded Heart.

275

" Moi ,er, that was an awful experience, I shall never
forget twat scene- -the decaying i)odies, some of them
merely skeletons ; the expression of the faces. The whole
appalling picture will haunt me till I die. They will never
know what it cost me to get these things. I only re-
cognised poor Harry by his clothes and the initials on his
sword. He was ])erfectly unrecognisable otherwise, but I
thought if I could cut off a little bit of his hair it would
bring before his mother's eyes a picture of natural and
peaceful death,"

Rachel shivered slightly, her imagination (juick to fill in
the dismal details of the picture Clement (hew.

"You have had many strange experiences since you
left us. ■ Tell me, are you still devoted to your pro-
fession ? "

" Why, of course, I simply could be nothing else than a
soldier. Mother, the defence of Rorke's Drift was simply
grand. You should have seen us with our poor little
redoubts of mealie bags and walls of biscuit tins, and the
cool, calm, noble energy of Bromhead and Chard. They
thought of everything, and just did it as easily and perfectly
as if it had been play ; though all the time we neV'"
expected a man of us to escape. It was worth being born
to see it."

" I 'm rather glad upon the whole that I didn't see
you," the mother answered, with a slight smile, " It was
sufficiently terrible to read about. It is hard upon the
women who wait at home, Clement."

"Yes, mother, I know."

He stooped down and kissed her, with eyes full ot
love.

"I want to tell you, too, that I never forgot what you
said, that you would pray for me at ten o'clock every night.
Wherever 1 was, or however occupied, I never forgot you at
that time. Even that night at Rorke's Drift, i looked my

I^ci

The Ay res of Studlcii^h.

M-

lli

.<'■/ ..

!)■

watch at three minutes to ten, and thought of you and Evy
at Stonecroft, and of Sybil here. It is a great deal to us
wlicn we are on active service to know that we are thouglit
of with loving anxiciy and confidence at home. Mother, I
do mean to l)e a better fellow than I have ever been.
When a man is face to face with death as often as I have
been lately, it gives him many queer thoughts. I know-
poor Harry thought of it continually, though he fell so soon.
The night Ijcfore Isandlhwana, after he had written his
letters, I saw him reading from a little book. It was Evy's
French Testament, and I found it in his breast-pocket, with
a bullet through the leaves. I should imagine," he added,
with a close pressure of his lips, " that Evy would reckon
that among her precious things to the very end of her days.
By the by, I was rather disappointed not to meet Will at
Southampton. I thought he would be sure to meet

" He has been ill all the spring," Rachel apswered, with
saddened expression. " I am very much afraid that, after
all, your cousin cannot live, Clement."

" Poor old Will ! He deserves to live. Are they at
Studleigh just now ? "

"No, at Bournemouth. They have been there since
early in May. We have not heard for some weeks how he
is, and I am afraid it is because he is too ill to write him-
self."

" I must take a run down to see him. I hope he wi/l
live. Do you know, mother, he said to me that day they
left Winterdyne last year, that I must take care of myself,
because I should one day soon be Squire of Studleigh. It
gave me quite a turn."

" There was truth in it, though, Clement."

" Well, I hope he will live to be an old man. I don't
want the place. I should not know how to take care of
it"

A Wounded Heart.

277

"You could not resign the army even to become Squire
of Studleigh."

" Never, never."

There was no mistaking the energy and decision of the
young soldier's tone.

" It would be perfect martyrdom to me. No, no, Will is
the man for Studleigh. He is happy pottering about
among his tenants, and planning improvements in his
villages. I should be miserable. I wish he had married.
He may recover and marry yet."

" I think not. He loves Evelyn, Clement, and I believe,
though I have not much ground for it, that her engagement
to Raybourne disappointed him so bitterly that he lost all
interest in life."

" Dear me, can that be so ! It's a queer world, mother,
and life seems all vexations and contradictions. There is
Will, a far better fellow than I am, yet he has nothing,
while I — I have everything."

" Some would reverse the situation, and say that the
wealthy master of a great inheritance like Studleigh had
everything, while the poor soldier had little worth possess-
ing.

"Nevertheless the poor soldier thanks God for his
many mercies, and asks to be made worthy of them,"
Clement answered, reverently. " And now, good-night,
mother, best and dearest ; not even Sybil can take your
place."

Had not Rachel compensation for the long years of
her widowhood, for the travail and anxiety with which
she had reared her fatherless children ? They were
worthy of her teaching — they were proving themselves
already heroes in life's hard battle; and her heart was at
rest.

After a few quiet and pleasant days at Winterdyne the
little family returned home to Stonecroft. Rachel was still

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23 WeST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14S80

(716) 873-4503

278

The Ayres of Stndleigh.

somewhat concerned about Evelyn ; indeed they all
wondered somewhat at her calmness of demeanour. Even
when Raybourne's name was mentioned, or any little
incident occurred to recall the painfulness of his loss, she
made no sign. Nobody had ever seen her shed a tear.
There was something at once unnatural and alarming in her
perfect self-control. She had no comment to make on the
story of the battle, and when Clement put in her hands the
little testament, with the folded letter within, she took it
with a faint, quivering, little smile and carried it away.
Nobody ever knew what Wiis in the letter, nor did she ever
speak of it even to her mother. For some things Rachel
was glad to get her away from Winterdyne. She fancied
that Lady Winterdyne thought her callous, and that her
love for poor Harry had never been real. Rachel thought
otherwise. She was gravely concerned for her rhild's
health. Evelyn betrayed no satisfaction at returning home ;
she simply acquiesced, and went about her little duties
as of yore with quietness and precision. But there
was a difference. Only once her mother saw any
sign. She came upon her unawares standing at the
drawing-room window looking out tov/ards the lake, where
the red sunset lay, and her face was so haggard, so
ghastly in its anguish, that Rachel's heart almost stood
still.

" Evy, my darling, what is it ? Why do you look so ?
You must be suffering fearfully," she cried, in keen
alarm.

But instandy Evelyn looked round, calm, serene, self-
possessed, even with a faint smile shadowing her
lips.

" I was only thinking, mamma. Sometimes when I look
away beyond and think how long I may have to live, it
seems hard. Don't look so grieved. I don't think of it
very often, only sometimes."

A Wounded Heart.

279

" My darling, you must try and speak to me. You must
not lock your sorrow up like that, or it will eat into your
heart. Have I been so poor a mother to you, my Evelyn,
that you cannot trust me ? "

" It is not that, mamma."

Evelyn's breath came in a strange, sobbing cry. " I
cannot speak if nobody can understand. I will try not to
vex you. I will be more cheerful, mother, dear, though I
have been trying hard all the time."

"I see that, but you must not try. It is natural that
you should grieve. God does not forbid our tears,
Evelyn. Christ himself wept with the poor sisters of
Bethany. Let that comfort you, my poor child."

" But, mother, I do not want to cry. I feel so still and
silent, as if I never wanted to speak again," said Evelyn,
looking up with clear, dry, steadfast eyes. " I never sleep
any, mother, and that makes me feel so strangely, as if I
lived in an unreal world among shadows. I cannot tell
you how I feel."

"I notice that you always slip away when Sybil is
here. Does it vex you, dear, to see Clement and her
together ? "

"Oh, no, that would be very selfish, and they think of me,
I know," she answered simply. " Mother, if I could only
have seen him once more. I did not tell him all I felt.
He did not know even when he went away how I loved
him. I will never live down that sorrow til! the very
end."

" Hush, darling, you promised to be his wife, and such a
promise from you involved all the rest. Do not torment
yourself about that. I wish I knew how to comfort
you "

" You do comfort me. It is very naughty of me, jnother,
to pretend sometimes that I am asleep when you come into
my room at night ? I just love to feel your presence and

I p

28o

The Ay res of Stndteigh.

your hand on my head. I know just how you look without
opening my eyes, and it comforts me far more than anything
you could say."

The mother's eyes filled, and for a moment she felt
somewhat rebellious for her child. It seemed hard that
that fair life, so full of promise, should appear to be early
blighted, that that strong, rich depth of womanly affection
should be pent in a heart but newly awakened to its own
capacity for affection.

" Why, mamma," said Evelyn, suddenly, " there is
a carriage ! Who can it be ? We are not expecting any-
body, are we ? "

" No dear, unless it be some of Clem's comrades,
but he did not intend to have them for a few weeks
yet."

They stepped over to the window, and great was their
surprise to see Lady Emily Ayre alight from the carriage.
She had a dark veil over her face, and she walked forward
to the door in nervous haste, and was immediately admitted.
She threw back her veil as she stepped into the drawing-
room, and revealed a face so haggard and pale and anguish-
lined that for a moment Rachel felt paralysed ; only for a
moment, however. Then she forgot the grief and humilia-
tion she had suffered at her hands, and remembering only
that she was a woman, and in trouble, took a swift step
towards her.

" Lady Emily, you are in trouble; you are ill; let me help
you."

She took the trembling hands in her gentle clasp. She
put her arm round the proud shoulders of the mistress of
Studleigh, and led her to a couch.

" Yes, I am in trouble," she said, in quick, hoarse
tones. "I am in despair, Mrs Geoffrey; my son is
dying."
" Dying. Oh, impossible."

A Wounded Heai't.

281

Rachel still kept the quivering, nervous hands in hers,
chafing them softly, with a tender touch.

" It is true. He cannot live, and he cries so incessantly
for your daughter, for Evelyn, that I have come to see if she
will humour the whim of a dying man, and return with me.
You will not keep her back," she added, looking up with
swift, inquiring wistfulness to Rachel's face. " I have
wronged and misjudged you, but I am not afraid to come
to you in my trouble."

"No, no, Evelyn shall go. I will go, too. Lady Emily,
if I can be of the least use," she said quickly, yet with
unspeakable tenderness.

" He loves her, he thinks of her continually," said Lady
Emily, looking at the girl's sweet face with a strange
feverishness. " I know of her sorrow, how completely her
heart must be bound up just now with other sad interests.
But surely her own suffering will make her mindful of the
suffering of others. My son has had a heavy cross to bear
all his life."

"I will go, Aunt Emily. Do not say another
word."

Evelyn stood by Lady Emily's side as she spoke, and
touched her shoulder gently, while her eyes were full of
tears. The tears rose also in Lady Emily's proud
eyes.

" You have good, true, womanly hearts,
forgive a great deal," she said, brokenly,
can afford to be generous. You have
restored to you in health and strength. I
to be robbed of my all. When can you
Will you go with me to-night ; now ? We returned
home only yesterday, and I left him with his nurse,
not saying where I was going, lest I should only bring
a new disappointment."

" There shall be no disappointment. We can be ready

You can
" But you
your hero
am about
be ready ?

282

The Ayres of Studleigh.

immediately," said Rachel, quietly. You shall have a little
refreshment . nd rest, and then we can go. Clement is at
Winterdyne. He has talked every day of going down
to see Will. We can leave a message for him to follow

us.

Within the hour the carriage was rapidly covering the
distance between Stonecroft and Studleigh.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

COUSINS.

N his couch, in the south window of the room
where his father died, lay the young Squire of
Studleigh, towards the close of a lovely August
day. Nearly a month had gone since Lady
Emily's hurried visit to Stonecroft, and still he Hngered,
though they expected each day would be his last upon the
earth. The attack which had so fearfully alarmed his mother,
and made his physicians scarcely less anxious, had passed
away ; and though it left him perceptibly weaker, had not
been repeated. Of his own choice, his father's rooms were
made ready for him. Many an hour, in the days of his
comparative health, he had been wont to spend in that
large and pleasant room, which was haunted by painful
memories for Lady Emily — memories in which regret and
remorseful pain were bitterly commingled. She often told
herself that she had failed in love and duty to the husband
who had worshipped her, and longed, as the living so often
passionately long, that opportunity could be given for
atonement. Opportunity was given, perhaps, in what her
son now required of her. It was her sad aim, in the midst
of her agony, to bury every thought of self, and present to
her boy a serene, and even a smiling face. The physicians

284

The Ay res of Studleigh,

never ceased to enjoin that the patient should be kept
quiet, but surrounded by a cheerful serene atmos[)here.

Rachel Ayre and Clement came and went between tlie
two houses, but at Studleigh Evelyn remained. In her
hour of need the work of comforting her aunt and being
useful to others lifted her entirely out of herself. It was an
extjuisite and beautiful thing to see how naturally she
slipped into her place, and how in a few days I^dy Emily
learned to lean upon the gentle, helpful girl, and to find in
her affection the greatest consolation.

Very gradually the walls of pride and self-will had been
broken down, never again to be raised. Slowly the veil
was lifted from the heart of that haughty woman, and
revealed her to be but a weak woman after all, whose need
of love was very great.

William Ayre's face was very stt ne as he lay there, with
the tender glory of the sunse ...ling about him like a
radiance. He looked wonderfully well in spite of his long
illness— his face was not painfully emaciated, nor did he
look what he and others believed himself to be — a dying
man. His mother often said that from the day his cousin
entered the house he had been better and brighter, and
more perfectly content ; and it was simply true.

He had been reading the sweet story of Lancelot and
Elaine, and the book had fallen on the floor with its leaves
open, and he was thinking, not of the story, but of some-
thing else, which had flushed his face, and brought a
bright, wonderful light into his eyes. Dinner was going on
downstairs, the only hour of the day there was no watcher
by the sick man's side. It had passed quickly that even-
ing, and when the opening of the door disturbed him he
looked round in surprise. It was Evelyn who entered,
looking very stately and sweet in her white gown with the
black ribbon bands, and the pale pearls round her neck,
the slight mourning she had chosen to wear for her dead
lover,

Cousins.

285

" Is dinner over, cousin ? Surely you have hurried to-
night ? "

" I am glad you have not missed us. We fancied we
had been longer than usual, Will," Evelyn answered, as she
stepped lightly across the floor. " Aunt Emily has gone to
lie down on condition that I stay here, so I have come to
stay,"

She stooped down and lifted the open book from the
floor. " Lancelot and Elaine ! Why will you pore so over
that doleful story. Will ? I am not sure that I have much
compassion for poor Elaine, but, of course, she will always
be an idol among men." She spoke with a light and
gentle banter, and smiled down upon him as she shook up
his pillows. There was no sisterly action, no sweet sisterly
thoughtfulness which Evelyn did not do for and show to
her cousin, and all with a quiet and beautiful cheerfulness
which carried strength with it."

" Sweet is true love, though given in vain, in vain,"
quoted Will, with a quick smile. " Do you not believe
that, cousin ? "

" I don't believe in doing things in vain. Will," she
answered energetically. " Now, I'm going to read the
' Back of the North Wind' as a tonic after that sweet stuff.
Have you everything you want ? "

" Everything, now you have come ; but I don't want you
to read. Sit still and speak to me, cousin."

" Well, I will, if you talk good sense," she said, nodding
brightly. " If we are to talk I may as well work. Saturday
is mamma's birthday, and I have to finish this little gift for
her. Well, I am listening."

" It is nearly a month since you came to Studleigh,
cousin."

" A month on Friday, what then ? "

" Are you not wearying to get away to your own cheerful
home?"

" ^Jo, I ?im very happy here,"

286

The Ayres of StudUigh.

" Really happy, Evelyn ? "

He bent forward with a curious eagerness, and looked
her fully in the face.

" As happy as I can be anywhere," she said, in a low
voice. " As happy as any of us can be at Studleigh, when
its dear master is so ill."

" Do you feel at home in the house, Evelyn?" he asked,
with almost feverish eagerness. " Do you like the place —
could you live here ? "

" I think it is the loveliest place in the world. Cousin
Will," answered Evelyn, in mild surprise. " You know I
do. I have often said so. Just look at the prospect from
that bay-window. It is perfectly enchanting."

" You have never felt quite at home in Stonecroft, I
think," he added, musingly. " Is that not true ? "

" What are you talking about, Will ? I never saw you in
such a quizzical mood. We would be very ungrateful
indeed if we were not happy there."

" I am glad you like Studleigh ; yes, very glad. When
are Clement and Lady Sybil to be married? — not this
furlough, surely ? "

" Oh, no ; there is no talk of their marriage. I am quite
sure it will not take place for a long time. It isn't likely
that Lord and Lady Winterdyne will be in a hurry to part
with their only daughter."

" That is true, unless they look for you in a sense to fill
her place," he said, looking at her keenly.

She bent her head low over her sewing, and made no
reply, but he saw the hand which held the needle tremble

" Forgive me, dearest. I do not know what has come to
me to-day. I have wounded you so often. Will you for-
give me, Evelyn ? "

" There is nothing to forgive, Cousin Will. You never
wound me," she said, looking up with a swift, bright smile.
*• Do let me read to you. I am afraid you hav^ not a
thirst for knowledj^e, sir,"

Cousins.

287

"Yes, I have for knowledge of a kind," he made answer.
" But I don't want knowledge out of any more books, it
is realities a man must deal with when he comes to this.
Don't grudge me your sweet companionship, Evelyn,
although I know it is a siiame that you should be shut up
here day by day with a dying man ; you, for whom the
world should look its brightest."

"Oh, Will, how can you say such dreadful things? It
has comforted me more than I can say to be here with you
and Aunt Emily. You see, I was just beginning to think
life had no further uses for me, when God showed me that
I could be of .service to others yet : and that, though i
great sorrow had come to me, I need not sit down and
fold my hands."

" It was a great sorrow, then ? " he said, wistfully, and
his eyes dwelt searchingly on her beautiful face as he asked
the question. She was looking away through the western
window to the woods, kindled into a ruddy flame by the
red glory of the dying day.

" It was a blow. Will, a fierce and terrible blow, which
seemed to slay me. I cannot tell you just how I feel.
Sometimes I do not understand myself," she said, dreamily.

" If you could tell me, dear, perhaps it would relieve
you. Aunt Rachel told me that you had never spoken of
it to her. It is not always well to shut one's self up alone
even with such a grief as that."

" No, it is not well, but I seemed to want to think, and
think, until I found out just where I stood. It was all so
hurried and sudden, Will, even before he went away. I
did not seem quite to realise what I had done. There
were even times when I feared I had been too hurried.
When I hear mamma speaking about her own marriage,
and how she went to India on a few days' notice, I wonder.
Am I so very different from other women, or is it that I am
only more slow of thought and decision? I could not,

288

The Ayrcs of Studlcigh.

at least ; I do not think I could have gone out to the Cape
if I had been asked to do it when they went away."

"Why not? Did you not care for poor Raybourne,
Evelyn ? "

" Yes — but — it seems to me that one has to think a long
time, and be very sure. Marriage involves so much.
There arc fearful risks in it. Those who marry ought to
know each other so well, that there can be no risk of dis-
appointment after."

Will Ayre turned his head away for a moment, and
Evelyn wondered what were his thoughts.

"Are you shocked and horrified at me, Cousin Will?"
she asked, quickly, yet with a most perfect confidence.
Never in all the years of their sweet cousinly intimacy had
he once misunderstood or misjudged her.

"No. I was only thinking. Evelyn, tell me more. I
want to know just how you and my mother stand to each
other. I see when you are both here with me that you
seem to be at home with each other, but I want to know
the innermost."

"There is no innermost, except what you see. I have
had many lessons here, Cousin Will. You have taught
me lessons which, please God, I shall never forget, but
among them all, I hope I have been truly and clearly
shown the wrong which can be done in the world by
prejudice and hard judgment."

"You mean that my mother has misjudged you and
Aunt Rachel. I know she has "

" I did not mean that. Will, although there may be truth
in that too. I mean that never in all the world has there
been a woman more misjudged than your mother has been
by me. I used to feel fearfully bitter against her, Will. I
could ask her forgiveness for it now on my knees."

" I love my mother dearly, Evelyn, bvt I cannot say that
she was kind to Aunt Rachel. Her prejudice against you
all has been one of the bitterest sorrows of my life."

Cousins.

289

"I am glad it has all been cleared up now, Will," the girl
answered, softly. " I used to think that if Aunt Emily
could only know a little of mamma, as we know her, how
different everything would he "

" She will know her now. She is learning to love her, I
can see," replied the Scjuire, quietly. " It will be a fearful
trial to my mother to leave Studleigh, Evelyn. I do not
know where she can fix her home."

" What relations have you at Portmayne Castle now,
Will?"

"My Uncle Fulke and his wife. They have a large
family. It is out of the question that my mother could
ever return there, nor will she care to live in the Dower
House here when the new heir enters into possession."

" How calmly you speak of it all," cried Evelyn, with
quivering lip. "You think of everything, of every one.
I wonder if there is one selfish thought in your heart
Mamma says every day you are so like your father that it
breaks her heart "

" It is the finest tribute, the only one I desire from those
who loved him, and who love me, Evy," said the Squire,
with a placid smile.

After a little silence he turned on his couch and looked
her full in the face.

" We have talked a great deal, Evelyn, but have never
touched upon the point which is uppermost in my mind,
though we have been very near it," he said, and his own
face flushed deeply.

" Has my mother said anything to you ? She knows
what has been in my mind for days "

"No, she has said nothing. Tell me what you mean,
cousin," Evelyn said, quietly.

" I scarcely dare, but I will, because I know your wide
sympathy and your largeness of heart. Will you take my
name, Evelyn, before I die?"

290

The Ayres of Stiidleigh.

The girl's work fell from her nerveless hands, and she
grew pale to the very lips.

"I do not think I understand you," she said, with
difficulty ; but even while she spoke the truth flashed upon
her as clear as the noonday sun.

" It is a fearful thing to ask, a sacrifice of such magnitude
that I do not dare, when I look at your beauty and think
what life may yet hold for you, to anticipate your answer.
I see you know what I mean, but before you speak let me
say something, let me try and explain away the reasons why
a man, dying as I am, should dare to think of such a
thing."

She drooped her head, and her hands played nervously
with the gay-coloured silks on her lap, but she spoke no
word.

"I do not want to say a word against Clem, honest
fellow."

"You know very well. Will, that Clem would insist on
Aunt Emily hving in Studleigh just as long as she chose,"
Evelyn interrupted, quickly.

"It is not that, Evelyn. I have no fear whatever but
that Clem will do what is just and true after his own
generous heart. But he has no desire for a country life ;
you have heard him say so dozens of times. He will
always be a soldier and a rover, and so the place and the
people will suffer."

" And what do you think I could do for them ? " the girl
asked, in the same still, passionless voice.

" The part of the estate which is not entailed would be
yours. It includes Pine Edge, and you would live there,
not all the year, but sometimes, and could thus take some
interest in the place," said Will.

" But your niother ? "

'■ My mother's fortune is very ample. In any case she
wishes me to bequeath all my money to you. I have done
so absolutely \ but, if you think you could agree to take my

Cousins.

291

name, it would be sweet to me to think that you had a
right to it all, the right of a wife. I think, going through
this simple ceremony a few hours before I die, Evelyn,
would scarcely hurt your prospects. It is a strange,
wild whim, perhaps ; one of the vagaries of a sick man's
fancy. But it is my mother's desire and mine. If out of
your sweet compassion you could make up your mind to do
this thing it will give to me the greatest happiness this
world can hold."

Evelyn Ayre sat in deep silence for a moment with her
face hidden, and then, without a word spoken, rose up
and glided from the room.

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CHAPTER XXXIV.

TILL DEATH US BO PART.

|HE Squire was not long left alone. He was still
agitated with the excitement of what had just
passed, when his mother, after a vain attempt
to snatch a few moments' needed sleep, came
upstairs.

"I thought Evelyn was here, William," she said, when
she opened the door and found him alone.

" She was here. She has not long gone. Have you had
a rest, mother ? "

" A rest, but not a sleep. How hot you are," she said,
as she laid her hand on his brow. " You seem quite ex-
cited. Is it possible. Will, that you have spoken to your
cousin about what we talked of yesterday ? "

"Yes, I have spoken,"

"And v/hat did she .say? Ha:; she left you in anger,
V/iJl?"

" Oh, no, I think not ! Evelyn is never angry," he an-
swered, brightly. " I do not suppose she will consent. It
is a great deal to ask, mother — too much — from a young
girl like Evelyn, with life all before her."

" I do not know. She has a high ideal of life's purpose.
She believes we should always consider others first if the

Till Death us do Part.

293

mere taking of your name would make you happier while
you are with us, I do not think she would hesitate, dear."

There speaks the mother," replied Will, with a smile of
love. " Let us not speak any more about it. It is I who
am selfish, seeking to satisfy a sick man's fancy."

" I do not see it in that light, Will," said the fond mother,
rebelliously. " It is to benefit her ultimately. It will give
her a great position."

" Not so very great, since Clement's wife will be mistress
in the old house. Sometimes one feels this law of primo-
geniture to be something of a hardship," said the Squire,
musingly. " Mother, will you admit that I was not mis-
taken in my high opinion of our kinsfolk ? "

"I will admit everything, Will. I am a humbled and
repentant woman. I have something to ask your Aunt
Rachel's forgiveness for yet ; but every time I see her my
courage fails me. It was a cruel thing I did, making them
leave Pine Edge. I may confess my true reason now, Will,
since circumstances have so strangely changed. I saw the
beauty of her little girl ; I feared that if you were allowed
to grow up together you would have become attached to
each other, and then the thought was perfectly intolerable
to me. How swift is retribution after all 1 It is the very
thing I desire now with all my heart."

" You do love Evelyn, then ? "

" I do. It would be impossible to be beside so sweet
and beautiful a character and not love her," she answered,
generously. " I have, by my own fault, been a miserable
woman all my days, trying with my weak, selfish hands to
control destiny, the privilege of the Creator alone. Oh, my
son, I have suffered too, and yet, in the midst of all my
suffering, I would not have things other than they aie. I
feel strangely calm and resigned, as if I could bear anything,
and keep still."

Will Ayre looked up at the beautiful face with ineffable
love in his own. She had greatly changed. The freshness

294

TJte Ayres of Studleigh.

of her beauty was long since gone, and she looked her years
to the full. The bright ebony hair, which had been a
dream of loveliness in her husband's eyes so long ago, had
lost its lustre, and was almost grey — her eyes were dimmed
by many tears, and by the strain of many an anxious vigil,
but there was upon that face now a serene and perfect peace,
a subdued and wistful tenderness a thousand times more
winning than the pride of its early beauty ; because it told
of a heart gradually weaned from the sordid interests of
self, and awakened to the richer meanings of life. It had
been a long transition, long and trying, not only to herself,
but to others ; but it was over now, and Lady Emily had
reached the height of her true womanhood. And so, for
her, sorrow and disappointment had had their benign
uses.

Meanwhile, in the room set apart for her, Evelyn was
kneeling by the open window with her hands clasped ; her
heart in a strange tumult. The certainty that her cousin
loved her was no surprise to her ; but that he should have
told her so, and asked her at the eleventh hour, to be his
wife, placed her in a peculiar and trying position. She felt
neither horrified nor angry. Only a vast compassion filled
her soul, and a keen appreciation of his unselfishness and
generous motives. She was still occupied with these strange
comminglings of thoughts and feelings when a low and
hesitating knock came to the door, followed by her aunt's
voice.

" It is I, Evelyn. May I come in ? "

" Certainly, Aunt Emily."

The girl sprang up and held open the door.

"My son has sent me to you, Evelyn. Do not let what
he has said drive you away from us," said Lady Emily,
hurriedly. " fhink no more about it, my love. It cannot
make much difference to him now, and I think it has re-
lieved him that he has spoken out frankly to you. He has
loved you all his life. Think what it must have been to

Till Death us do Part.

295

him to keep silence «o long, and don't be very hard in your
judgment."

" Oh, Aunt Emily, hush ! I am not hard at all," cried
the girl, in a great burst of sorrow. " Life is so hard to
understand. I wish God would show me what to do."

Lady Emily put her arm round the drooping shoulders,
with a tender, caressing touch.

" I cannot bear to see you vexed, my darling. You, who
have been so good to me and mine," she said, in a low,
husky voice.

" I am not vexed at all, except for Will. May I go home
to-night. Aunt Emily, without seeing him ? I want to speak
to mamma, and I will come back to-morrow "

" If you are very anxious to go, my dear, I will order the
carriage at once," Lady Emily replied. "But do not, I
entreat you, sacrifice your own feelings — feelings which
must be sacred to you, even for the sake of Will. He has
had many disappointments, one more or less can make but
little difference to him now. Already I think he regrets
what he has said, he is so fearful of distressing you. Only
this fancy took a strange hold upon him, and when he asked
my advice, I thought it better that he should reveal what
was in his mind to you. Perhaps I was selfish in that too.
It is so hard not to think only of my son in these sad
days."

"It was not selfish, only natural. I wish you could
believe, and make Will believe, that I am neither distressed
nor angry on my own account, but only for him," Evelyn
answered in a low voice, and wich flushed face. " How
could I misjudge him? He has always been so good. If
— if it will make him happier, perhaps I ought to grant
what he asks. It would be no hardship to me to be called
by his name, and to have closer right to watch by him to
the end. By to-morrow, I think, after I have spoken with
mamma, I shall know just what to do. To-morrow I shall
come back in any case."

III!

296

The Ayres of SUuUeigh.

Lady Emily looked at the girl in Simple wonder. She
was so calm, so simple, so d'rect in her ideas, and her
expression of them. There was no shirking the question,
no obtrusion of her own feelings, only a quiet and brave
consideration of the whole matter in its serious light, a
desire to decide what would be best for all. It was the
most wonderful thing Lady Emily had met with in her life,
but one could not express a tithe of what she felt at the
moment.

Clement and his mother were lingering a few moments
in the drawing-room after their return from Winterdyne,
where they had been dining, when the rumble of wheels
disturbed them.

" That will be a carriage from Studleigh, Clem," Rachel
said in quick alarm. " Your cousin must be worse. I wish
I had gone over to-day instead of to Winterdyne. I have
been thinking so much of them all day."

Before Clement could reply, they heard a light footfall on
the corridor, and the next moment Evelyn entered the
room.

" What has happened, Evy ? Is Will gone ? " asked
Clement, quickly.

" No, Will is no worse. I wanted to see mamma, and
Aunt Emily sent the carriage with me. It is to stay here
and take me over in the morning. Will you see about it,
Clem, please ? The man is waiting."

Clement looked genuinely surprised, and felt that there
was something he could not understand, but he went off
obediently to see that the man and his horses were
accommodated for the night. Then Evelyn turned to her
mother with a little, weary smile.

" Let us go upstairs, mamma, before Clem comes back.
I have a great deal to say to you. I am very unhappy and
perplexed. I don't know what I should do, and I know
you will help me. Aunt Emily knew it too, so she let me
come at once."

Till Death us do Part.

297

It was about fifteen minutes before Clem returned to the
house, and he looked round the empty drawing-room in
blank dismay, feeling rather aggrieved that it should be
empty. He lingered about in the hall for a little, and when
no sound reached him from upstairs, he went into the
smoking-room and lit his pipe. It seemed to him that he
had been smoking for more than an hour, when he heard a
step on the stairs, and his mother's voice —

" Are you there, Clem ? "

"Yes, mother, here, and jolly glad to see you," he
answered, promptly. " What's up ? Has Evy quarrelled
with the old lady ? I'm not a bit surprised. Why, what's
up?"

The last words fell abruptly from his lips when he saw the
exceeding paleness of his mother's face. She entered the
smoking-room and shut the door.

" Evy is not coming down. A very strange thing has
happened. Will has asked he/ to marry him."

" What ! Oh, impossible. Isn't he dying ? or is he
getting better r What does it mean ? '

" He is not getting better. Sit down, dear, and I will try
and explain it to you."

But Clem did not sit down. He wandered up and down
the room, pipe in hand, while his mother in a few brief
words told him what had occurred.

" And do you mean to say, mother, that Evy for one
moment would think of such a thing ? " he asked, blankly.

" She is thinking of it. She is a very curious girl, Clem.
Things lay hold upon her and weigh upon her heart."

"But, mother, so soon after poor Raybourne : it's
monstrous. I don't understand her."

"I do. It could not harm poor Raybourne, Clement,
though Evelyn should be called your cousin's wife a few
hours before his death. That is not what concerns me.
It is the future. It is hardly to be expected that Evelyn's
life is to end just here. She is very young, and many other

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The Aytes of Studleigh.

jfT-r

chances of happiness might come to her. I confess I am
unable to advise her."

"This appears to me to be a matter easily enough
settled. It is Will's mother, I believe, a selfish old woman,
who thinks of nothing outside her own four walls. She is
urging Evelyn on to this absurd sacrifice, but I shall not
permit it ! " said Clem, hotly.

"Hush, dear. You wrong your aunt. She is not
anxious for it, but the reverse."

"Then poor Will— poor fellow, I am sorry for him —
must have become weakened in mind by his illness. In
health I know he would be the very last man to ask such a
sacrifice at the hands of any woman. Do you mean to say,
mother, that you have any doubt in the matter? Why,
what good would it do to the living or the dead ? I never
heard of a more absurd or senseless proposal in my
life."

" Poor Will's motives are of the most unselfish, dear,"
his mother reminded him, quietly. "We must leave
Evelyn alone. She is not one to be easily influenced. I
have never known so young a woman with such capabilities
of decision. We must leave her alone."

"I cannot. I will not permit it," Clement reiterated.
" I will see Will myself if it cannot be prevented any other
way."

Rachel shook her head, and faintly smiled. Her children
were a little beyond her now ; the time had gone for her to
say — Do this ! and it was done. Her sympathies in this
matter were strangely divided. There was something
weirdly pathetic in the idea of Will's life-long and hopeless
love at last asserting itself and claiming recognition. What
she had said of Evelyn was absolutely true ; and though in
the morning Clement tried to reason with his sister, she
would give him no satisfaction, and he felt that he was
speaking in vain. Poor Clement was in sore distress. The
nfemory of his friend and comrade was so fresh in his

Till Death us do Part.

299

iicart that the very idea that Evelyn could entertain a
thought of supplanting that memory seemed like perfect
sacrilege. It weighed upon him so much that after the
early lunch he mounted his horse and followed his mother
and sister to Studleigh. When he was shown up to his
cousin's room, and saw his face, all his anger died
away.

" Come away, old fellow, it seems ages since I saw you,'
Will said, with a bright Uiiruffled smile. " Now, I have
seen everybody I want to see to-day except Evelyn."

" Has she not been here ? She left Stonecroft in a great
hurry this morning," said Clement, bluntly.

" Not yet ; though I know she has come back. Aunt
Rachel has just gone out. What a great, splendid fellow
you are, Clem ! It makes me feel strong to look at
you."

The tears sprang hot and bright into Clem's honest
eyes, and his heart smote him for his bitter thoughts of
his cousin. He felt, after all, that if the granting of his
request was to make his closing hours happier and brighter,
it could be no such terrible sacrifice, but rather, especially
to the woman who made it, something of a privilege. He
sat down very meek and quiet by his cousin's side, and
Will, looking up at him, read his every thought just as
easily as if it had been written on an open page. But the
subject was never mentioned between them.

It was sunset that day before Evelyn came to her
cousin's room. She opened the door softly, and was beside
him before he was aware of her entrance. The red flush
mounted to his cheek when he looked round and saw the
expression of her face.

" I have come back, dear Will," was all she said : " and
if you like I will never leave you any more."

• ••••••*

Next morning, when the sun lay warm and bright on all
the fair world, a solemn and beautiful scene was enacted in

300

The Ay res of StudUigh,

the room where the old Squire had died. There were
present only Lady Emily Ayre, Rachel and her two
children, and Lord and Lady Winterdyne, ' their own
request.

"Till death us do part!"

A visible emotion thrilled all present as these significant
words fell from the lips of the old Vicar who had officiated
at that other marriage service we witnessed long ago in the
church at Studleigh.

It was believed by all present that William Ayrc's
marriage-day would likewise be the day of his death.

■;; %

CHAPTER XXXV.

THE PHYSICIANS VERDICT.

CONFESS I am surprised that Mr Ayre has disap-
pointed my expectations by gathering strength
when he ought, by established precedent, to have
lost it. We cannot understand it, but the fact
remains, and I, for one, see no reason why he should not
live for many years."

Of this opinion an eminent medical man delivered him-
self in the library at Studleigh on the afternoon of a dull
and wintry-looking September day. He was in the room
alone with Lady Emily, and he noticed a peculiar expression
come upon her face while he was speaking. It was not
exactly the expression he had looked for, in response to
his hopeful remarks, and he looked as he felt, extremely
puzzled.

" I see you scarcely credit me. Lady Emily, but I assure
you I speak in sober earnest. I find your son distinctly
better since I examined him last at Bournemouth in June.
You may with confidence impart this hopeful news to his
wife. Poor, young lady, it will relieve her mind of a heavy
burden."

" I question that."

The words seemed forced from Lady Emily's lips, and

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The Ayres of Studleigh.

the i)hysician regarded lier with ' increased and visible
surprise.

" Pardon me, hut your words astonish me, Lady Emily,"
he said, quickly. " Is there any reason why the verdict I
am justified in giving to-day regarding his state of health
should not make her boundlessly happy ? "

" Yes, there is a reason. Sit down, Doctor Phillips, and
let me speak. You have known us for many years ; you
knew my husband, and it is sometimes a relief to speak to
an outsider. My son's wife married him, believing that by
doing so she would make happy the last hours of a dying
man. As you are aware, she is my niece, but, pernaps, you
are not aware that she was engaged to be married to Lord
Winterdyne's son, who was killed at Isandlhwana."

"No, I did not know," said the physician, quickly.
" And do you mean to say she married Mr Ayre simply
and solely for the reason you name, and that she has no
affection for him . "

" I believe so. I am sure of it."

"Then she did him a great wrong," was the grave
answer. " But I can scarcely believe it. To see them
together one would believe them to be bound up in each
other. You may be mistaken. I trust you are, for the
happiness of all concerned."

Lady Emily shook her head.

"I fear not. What would you advise? It is a most
painful situation, is it not ? " she said, with a pathetic smile.
" And yet my son cannot die, even if he would."

The doctor laughed.

"Dear Lady Emily, do you take my advice and not
trouble yourself about this matter ; it will right itself," he
said, cheerily. " Above all, don't let our patient think that
in not dying he has disappointed expectation. It would be
too absurd. I confess I do not see much cause for anxiety.
I think you are needlessly concerning yourself."

The Physician's Verdict.

303

"Do cither of them know the opinion you have expressed
to-day regarding his condition ? " she asked.

" No. I came straight down to you, because I fancied
you had suffered most," said the physician, with a grave
kind of sympathy which went to his listener's heart.

"I will try to he cheerful as you advise," she said, trying
to smile. "After all, as you say, it is too absurd that we
should feel as if we were disappointed. / do not feel so,
only I can scarcely believe that I dare hope. I have
suffered so much, and so long."

" But you will have your compensations now. Who
knows but that one day you will hold the heir in your arms?
Look at the bright side, and the rest will follow you," said
the physician, cheerily, as he shook hands and went, his
way.

It was now nearly a month since that impressively simple
marriage ceremony had taken place in the house of Stud-
leigh ; a month of curious experience for all within its walls.
But, although the Squire still lingered, none had dared to
hope that there was any substantial imi)rovement in his
condition, or that the end could be very long delayed.
Therefore the physician's favourable verdict was something
of a shock to Lady Emily. Her heart beat tumultuously as
she slowly ascended the stairs after he had gone. She felt
strangely excited, and, now that she had realised it, almost
wildly happy. She had given him up so often — had so
many times resigned herself to the inevitable — that, resting
on an assurance upon which she had the utmost confidence,
she felt as if a new vista had been opened up to her.
Something of her inward satisfaction was expressed in her
beaming face when she entered her son's room, and when
he somewhat languidly raised his head, he was instantly
struck by it.

"Well, mother, what does Phillips say? How much
longer am I to cumber the ground and wear out your
patience ? " he asked, with a slight smile. " I hope he gave

304

The Ayres of Studleigh.

It'"'

¥n

some definite satisfaction. I asked him straight out, but
he 'heard me as he heard me not,' and went away. Tell
me quite frankly. I can bear it."

Lady Emily crossed to her son's couch, rmd, sitting down
by his side^ laid her hand on his head.

" Ministered unto by such a mother and such a wife," he
said, dreamily, "life during these lingering days has been
passing sweet. Mother, I did not think dying could be
made so easy. If this be dying, it is easier to die than
live."

" William, tell me, have you felt no better these few days ;
stronger, more interested in life? I have fancied so," she
said, with a visible agitation.

" I have fancied myself so, and Evelyn will try to per-
suade me, but that cannot be," he said, quietly.

" My son, you will live. Death is farther off than it has
ever been. I have Doctor Phillip's authority for what I
say," she said, tremblingly.

He looked at her for a moment with wide, questioning
eyes, but his face showed no satisfaction nor happy dawn
of hope.

"Mother, surely that is impossible, he said at length,
slowly, and with difficulty.

" It is true, my son. But you do not look as if I had
brought you the happy news of a new lease of life," she
said, with a strange, wavering smile, but foi a time he gave
her no answer, and she, sitting silent by his side, knew that
he had forgotten her, and knew that he was thinking of his
dearest. Strange that even that knowledge had lost its
sting for the proud heart of the mother, since she had
opened it to admit another love.

"You know," he said at length, turning his face once
more to her, " you know that I am thinking of Evelyn. If
this thing be true, what is to become of her ? ''

" I am thinking of that too, William," she answered, with
responsive gravity. " She is your wife, dear, and I feel sure

The Physician's Verdict.

305

that her wifely dc^ty will never fail you. We know that in
Rachel Ayre's daughter we cannot be disippointed."

" But that for me is not enough," he said, wearily, and
she saw his face grow grey and pinched in the shadow.
" Mother, I have done her a cruel and irreparable wrong.
I cannot set her free, though, God knows, I would gladly
do so. What do they mean ? " he broke off with a sudden
passion most unusual in him. " What do they mean by
telling a man that he is dying, by setting a limit to his days,
when they know no more of life and death than the babe
unborn ? It seems to me that their boasted skill is of all
farces the most wretched and despicable."

She sat silent, understanding and sympathising with his
passionate outburst, and yet unable to utter a word of
comfort. To her the situation seemed most painful, imd
the outlook for the happiness of her son and his wife most
gloomy.

" Mother, it unmans me to think of that bright creature
tied, if I live, to a wretched, broken-down life, which can
be but half a life at best. Oh, it was most unnatural and
cruel to bind her. Why did nobody point out my selfish-
ness? I saw it in Clement's face once, but he held his
peace. It would have been better had they taken her
away where her sweet compassion would never have been
appealed to. Why did nobody speak ? It was cruel !
cruel ! "

"My son, Evelyn was spoken to by Clement and by
others," answered Lady Emily, quickly. " I do assure you
she was not coerced. She married you of her own will
freely, and I do not think that she is very unhappy. It is
not as if she had disliked or despised you. She has always
had a cousinly affection for you, William, and there are
many marriages happy enough in the main which are built
upon a less sure foundation."

William Ayre only wearily shook his head.

*' You say these things to comfort me, mother, but the f^ct

!)l

IS '

ill'

IliM

liji

3o6

The Ay res of Studleigh.

remains. Evelyn married me, believing that I had not many
days, perhaps not many hours to live. The possibility that
I might recover never once suggested itself to her mind."

" And do you mean to say, William, that you believe she
will feel herself aggrieved ? "

" She has the right to be. If she refuse to keep the vows
she took that day she has right upon her side. She shall
be left absolutely free, but who is to tell her this ? God
help me, I cannot."

"William, I do think you take a morbid view of it," his
mother said quickly. " Who has seemed so anxious, who
so devoted, during these weary days as Evelyn herself? So
marked has her attention been that Dr Phillips spoke of it
to me to-day, and of the happiness it would be to her to
hear his favourable verdict."

*' What you say is all true, but I see in it only the
natural outcome of a woman's tender care for the sick and
dyii^g. It is better that I should face the true case man-
fully than shirk the issues which sooner or later must be
met," he said, with a kind of sad impatience which
betrayed the keenness of his feelings. " Mother, will you
leave me for a little and see that I am not disturbed ? I
want to think this matter out. Above all, see that Evelyn
does not come here. Say I am asleep, or anything, only
keep her away."

Lady Emily rose up with a heavy sigh, and with a kiss
left him to fight his silent battle. She locked the door from
without, and slipping the key in her pocket went down to
the drawing-room, where she found Rachel waiting with
visible anxiety.

" I saw Doctor Phillips go some time ago," she said,
quickly. "What did he say to-day? I was glad that
Clement had kept Evelyn out of the way while he was
here."

"Have they not come back? I am glad of it," Lady
Emily said hurriedly, and then to Rachel's great amazement

'l!

The Physician^ s Verdict

307

suddenly burst into tears. It was very seldom, indeed, that
the self-possessed woman so gave way, and to Rachel's
mind it had but one meaning.

" Dear Lady Emily, we have been long preparing for this,
but it must always come with a shock," she said, tenderly.
" There are many to help you to bear your sorrow when it
comes. It is a common sorrow to us all."

" Strange, is it not, that I should weep at what I am glad
of? " said William Ayre's mother, almost solemnly. " I am
overwrought. I seem to have utterly lost all my powers of
' If-control. And yet I never needed them more, for there
is a crisis to be faced, and it must be faced at once."

She dashed the tears from her eyes with something of her
old imperiousness, and, sitting up, looked straight into the
grave, wondering face of her sister-in-law.

" The physician's verdict to-day is the reverse of what we
expected. He says my son will be restored to health. It
is a fearful complication. Poor Evelyn, she does not know
what is in store for her."

For one moment only Rachel did not speak, and then it
was with a swift and ready smile.

" What will you say if I tell you I have been preparing
myself for this, that I have marked the improvement, but
feared to say anything lest your hopes should be dis-
appointed ? "

"And do you mean to say that it is no sorrow, no
disappointment, to you that your daughter will be bound
for life to a delicate husband ? "

" Why should it be ? I see what lies heavy on your heart.
Lady Emily. You fear that Evelyn will look at it from your
standpoint. I think differently, and I am her mother. I
do not say that at the present moment, perhaps, she enter-
tains for Will the love a wife should have, the love of which
you and I now have known the sweetness and the strength ;
but I do say that there is no reason why it should not

come

3o8

The Ayres of Studleigh.

A light like the strong, beautiful dawning of a new day
shone upon Lady Emily's face.

" May God bless you, Rachel, for ever and ever. It has
been your happy privilege to be a blessing to many, but I
question if you have ever so directly blessed a human soul
as you have done to-day. If I could only believe you — oh,
what a future I might look forward to, what hopes might
blossom in my heart fur my son and daughter. God grant
that there may be truth in what you say."

"I am sure of it," repeated Rachel, with that gentle-
ness which was part of herself. " Have you been with
Will ? Has he any idea of this, or were you afraid to tell
him?"

"I have told him. He is in the depths of despair,
Rachel. He thinks he has blighted Evelyn's life. It will
need a great deal to reassure him. J believe," she added,
with a quivering smile, " that the poor boy would die if he
knew how. There would be something comical in it if it
were not so intensely solemn and pathetic."

"Will you allow me to go to him now, before Evelyn
returns ? " asked Rachel. " Evelyn herself shall reassure
him, but I shall pave the way. He used to put great faith
in what I said. I must put his faith to the test to-night."

" Ay, do. He believes in you, and reverences you above
all women," said Lady Emily ; and as she rose up, she laid
her hand on h jr sister-in-law's shoulder, and for a moment
they looked at each other in silence. " There have been
many strange passages between you and me, Rachel,"
Lady Emily said. " Sometimes I look at you in simple
wonder, asking myself wherein you differ from other women.
The relations between us are not of an ordinary kind. We
must either love each other with no ordinary love, or the
reverse. My heart has gone out to you as it never went out
to a living woman before. Do you forgive me ? No, I will
have no evasion. Tell me so with these Hps which have
never lied."

The Physician's Verdict.

309

"I forgive you, since you will have your pound of flesh,"
said Rachel, with a sunny smile, and then the lips of these
two women met for the first time in a kiss of peace — a kiss
which blotted out the past, and was an earnest of sweeter,
brighter, happier days to come.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

HUSBAND AND WIFE.

((

IjHAT has done you all the good in the world,

^KJ^j Evy. I must come ^ind take you out every

C^MK morning."

"It /las done me good. I feel like a new
creature, and Caliph has carried me splendidly, though
Will seemed rather nervou:.. Just stand still a moment,
Clem, and let us admire this prospect. Isn't it glorious?"

They drew rein on the brow of the moorland road,
and turned back to look at the magnificen*- valley through
which the winding Ayre crept like a gossamer thread. .

"See, yonder is Winterdyne," said Clement, pointing
with his riding switch far ahead. " Don't you see the
tower and the flagstaff?"

"No, I don't," answered Evelyn, with a merry laugh.
"Love has sharpened your eyes, Clem. I wish it had been
a little nearer, so that I could see Sybil oftener," she added,
with some gravity. " I couldn't love her any better, Clem,
though she were my sister to-morrow."

" I 'm glad of it. Haven't they behaved splendidly about
poor Will, Evy ? I '11 tell you what I thmk, that if more of
our aristocracy were like the Winterdynes we would hear
less about class feuds."

Husband and Wife.

311

" I believe it. Shall we go now ? How delicious the
wind is, though it felt chilly as we rode out. Yes, I must
have a canter on Caliph every morning."

She stooped down over the animal's beautiful neck, and
caressingly laid her hand on his head. Clem, with a
sudden rush of brotherly pride, thought how well horse and
rider accorded, each being beautiful, and young, and full of
life. He fancied he had never seen his sister look more
fair. The dark, perfect-fitting habit, the dainty hat, the
white band at the neck, and the exquisite flush on her face,
all combined to make a vision of loveliness which even
Sybil could not eclipse. And as his thoughts reverted first
to a solitary grave on a foreign battlefield, and then to the
prostrate and feeble form of the Master of Studleigh, as he
had seen it only an hour ago, his heart swelled with the
bitterest rebellion.

" What is it, Clem ? " she asked, sofdy, seeing the deepen-
ing shadow on his face.

"Nothing. I was thinking. I can't help it, Evy. I
am a brute, but I must speak. I was thinking of poor
Hal, and of Will, and of you. Nobody ever deserved a
more brilliant or a happier life. I declare, when I see you
look as you are looking now, I feel desperate, upon my
word I do."

A wavering smile crept about her sweet mouth, and she
bent still lower over Caliph's neck.

" Don't fret about me, Clem, dear. I am not very miser-
able. Sometinies I think I am not miserable at all," she said,
in a low voice. " There are times when I think of Harry —
I do sometimes think of him, Clem, and then I feel very
forlorn. But I do not regret having married Will. It has
made him so happy, and he loves me so dearly."

Clem made no answer, though some words trembled on
his lips — a question he had been longing to ask for some
days. To his surprise, Evelyn forestalled him.

" I want you to tell me, quite frankly, Clem, what you

:u2

The Ay res of Studleigh.

,.:-5

X:.

think of Will. Do you think he is getting any worse?" she
asked, suddenly.

"I do «^/," Clement answered, with blunt abruptness.
"In fact, I believe he is better. Is not there something
awfully tragic in the very idea that we should be waiting on
for him to die, and he won't?"

" / am not."

Evelyn's voice rang out sharp and shrill on the keen,
cool air. " Don't imagine that I have asked the question
hoping for a different answer. I have faced all the issues,
Clem. The night before my marriage I asked myself,
solemnly, what it would mean for me if Will should recover,
and should require a lifetime of wifely duty at my hands ?
Do you think that in such circumstances there are many
women who would not have faced that contingency ? "

" You are a wonderful girl, Evelyn. I don't think I
know anything about you. Here mamma and I have
been torturing ourselves about it, and wondering what
was to be done if poor Will should recover, while you have
calmly settled in your own mind every issue. I do not
understand women, Evy. I treat them as conundrums,
and give them up."

A little laugh escaped Evelyn's lips.

" You will know more about them some day. Sybil will
teach you well. She has her whims and caprices, which
will mystify you, even more than I do," she answered.
" Well, shall we go now ? "

" In a moment. Tell me first, Evelyn, what you think
about poor Harry ? Forgive me if I hurt you, but I want
to understand that. It would make my mind easier. You
see he was an uncommonly good fellow, and he was so
fond of you."

Evelyn turned her fair head away, and it was a moment
before she answered.

"I am beginning to think, Clem, that I cannot have
cared so much for Harry as he did for me. The sudden-

Husband and Wife.

313

ness of our parting made me imagine a great many things,
and the awful shock of his death was harder for me to bear,
because I had begun to realise that in a sense I had hardly
been true to him."

" In that case, for the first time since it happened, I can
say I believe it was better that he did not live to come
home. He simply worshipped you, Evelyn. I am glad
that he died believing you cared for him. It made him
happy at the end, and now it is the living we have to think
of. I hope, for your sake, that Will has obtained a new
lease of life." As he spoke he leaned forward, kissed his
sister, and took his hand from her bridle rein. Then in
silence they rode home together.

From his sunny window, William Ayre saw them ride up
the avenue, and he grew sick at heart as his eyes dwelt with
awful longing on the bright, radiant face of his wife. His
wife ! Bound to him by an indissoluble bond which he
could not loose, " till death us do part."

She saw him at the window, and waved her hand to him
as she vaulted lightly from her saddle. Before any one
could detain her, or speak a word to her, she had run lightly
into the house and upstairs to her husband's room. When
Rachel heard her foot on the corridor she slipped into the
adjoining dressing-room, and out to the drawing-room land-
ing by another door.

" Oh, Will, I have had such a lovely ride all the way to
Copley Downs, and over the moor to Ayreleigh ! '" she cried,
as she entered the room. " And Caliph carried me like a
lamb. Won't you make him over to me for my very own?"

He had no answer to her gay chatter, and when she came
to the side of his couch she saw instantly that something
graver than usual troubled him.

" It was too bad of me. Will, to leave you so long. Do
you know we have been two hours away ; and talking over
old times we forgot the flight of time. But I do not think,"

1^. •

314

TJte Ay res of Stiidleigh.

she added, with an indescribably tender touch, "that we
ever for a moment forgot you."

" I am glad, dearest, that you have enjoyed your ride.
I must ask Clem to take you out every day. It has done
you so much good. Evelyn, you are a most lovely
creature."

Her colour rose at his quiet but telling praise.

" Clem has been flattering me this ^norning, Will, and I
am utterly vain. Now, let us talk about you. Clem and I
are agreed on one point, for once in our lives, dear. We
believe that you are not getting worse, but that you are
getting better. Will."

He gave a great start, and she wondered to see the pain-
ful flush overspread his face.

" Has any one told you, Evelyn ? Do you really believe
that, and yet can bear to look at me ? " he asked, with a
nervous haste which astonished her.

"Why, Will, what are you talking of?" she asked, with
a slight quiver of the lip. " Let me tell you ; we stood for
a little on the moor edge talking about things, and after we
had agreed that you were getting better, I looked away
across the lovely country, and I said to myself, some day
perhaps, not very far distant. Will and I will ride here to-
gether and admire the scene. If you are not very lazy,
dear, perhaps we may do that before the snow comes this
very year."

William Ayre turned upon his elbow and fixed his
earnest eyes on his wife's face. She never forgot that look.
It was the expression of a man who was weighing a matter
— a matter of life and death.

" Evelyn, can you face the prospect of a lifetime, even
a short lifetime, with me cheerfully?" he asked, with a
strange hoarseness in his voice.

" Oh, Will ! " was all she said ; and he saw her bright
eyes grow dim.

I have been lying here for an hour torturing myself,

((

Husband and Wife.

315

because in a moment of extreme selfishness I urged you to
the forging of a bond which Scripture itself says no man
may put asunder. When I saw you ride up the avenue a
pigture of youth and strength and loveHness, and reaHsed
what I had done, I turned my face to the wall, and prayed
that my new strength might go from me, and that I might
die."

" Oh, Will ! " she said again, and this time her face was
hidden.

" I have been trying to find some solution of the
difficulty, but there is none. Suppose you voluntarily left
me, and if you wished to do so I should not seek to keep
you," he went on in his quiet, hopeless voice. " Still you
would not be free, still no other, however dear to you, could
seek your love. I have done you a great and irreparable
wrong, my dearest. May God forgive me for it."

"And you cannot find any solution of the difficulty.
Will," she said at last in a low and tender voice, though
still keeping her face hidden. " Two heads are better than
one. Suppose we try together."

"What would you say then, Evelyn?" he asked, in a
voice so eager and earnest that a faint tremulous smile
hovered for a moment on her lips, but he did not see it.

"You have had your say. Will," she said, presently.
" Suppose I speak now ? "

She sat up, tossed her hat to the floor, and with a pretty
wilful gesture, pushed back the dark locks which the wind
had ruffled so unmercifully.

"It is very kind of you to torment yourself about my
'settlement in life, and even to give a thought to the 'braw
wooers' who might ride down the glen," she said, quite
soberly, though there was a gleam of laughter in her eyes.
" But don't you think. Will, that this unvarnished candour
on your part is a little hard on me ? You see I have got
used to being a person of importance in this house. I find
it is quite an enviable position to be a squire's wife," she

3i6

The Ay res of Studleigh.

life

•?"t

continued, when he made no answer. "Suppose, instead
of laying a great many plans to get rid of me you give me
a chance to distinguish myself as mistress of Studleigh
Manor? I assure you I shall try to bear my honours
meekly."

" Evelyn, you speak almost as if it would be no hard-
ship," he said, and the painful intensity of both look and
tone completely broke her down.

" Oh, Will, how blind you are, how wilfully blind ! " she
cried, springing to her feet. " Can't you see that trying to
learn in this room lessons of patience and resignation has
been an utter failure, and that I have learned only one
thing in the wide earth."

"And that?"

But she would not satisfy him yet. She walked slowly
to the far end of the long, beautiful room, and looked away
over the tree tops to the misty downs, across which the cool
south wind was sweeping with unbroken force.

" Yes, it is a lovely spot, Will, and I love it better than
any place on earth," she said, by-and-bye, when she came
slowly back to his side. " I am prouder of being its
mistress than of anything else in the world, except of your
love for me."

She knelt down by him, and let her beautiful eyes meet
his without faltering.

" Looking forward. Will, I see a husband and wife living a
blessed life together in this dear home," she said, dreamily.
"Trying, out of gratitude for mercy vouchsafed, to live
a life which shall bless others also. It will not be very
hard for the husband, because already he has learned how
to bless the lives of others, and the wife will not be very
anxious about her share, because she will always have such
a wise and loving counsellor by her side. Do you under-
stand me now. Will, and are not two heads better than
one?"

Husband and IViJc.

317

" Your words are charged with l)lcssed meaning, Evelyn,
hut you must he plainer still. Can it he possihle that in
the future you have so exquisitely sketched, you might learn
to care a little, even for me ? "

" Even for you."

She laid her head down upon his arm and rested her hot
cheek on his hand.

"Was ever man so hard to convince? Why, Will, I
love you now with all my heart ; and I believe," she added,
with a little break in her voice, " I believe I have loved
you all my life and d«d not know it."

They were amazed at the rapidity with which the Squire
recovered his lost strength. From that day he became a
new man, and in less than a month's time was able to
journey to the sunny South to establish the cure love had
wrought. Husband and wife took that journey alone.
There was never much said about it, but it very gradually
began to dawn upon them that it would be better so ; nay,
that though grateful to those who so loved and cherished
them, the time had come for them to be alone.

Some months later, in the bright spring month which
was to witness the bridal of Sybil and her brave soldier, the
Squire and his wife returned to their own ; and when the
Lady Emily saw the bronzed and bearded man, still slender
of figure, but straight and lithe and strong, come uj) the
carriage-way, with his wife leaning heavily and proudly on
his arm, while the people who loved him rent the air with
their hurrahs, she was totally overcome.

" Courage, Emily ! " said Rachel, the faithful and true,
ready, as of yore, to speak the tender word in season.
"God has been very good to us, and to our children. Are
they not a noble pair ? "

" Ay. I was but thinking how very little I had aided in
the formation of my son's character. I owe a great debt,
Rachel to you and yours, a great d^bt. It is love and

3i8

The Ay res of Studleigh.

happiness which have restored my son, even that I owe to
to you."

" Hush, here they are ! "

And the next moment Evelyn's happy face was hidden
on her mother's breast, and the joy of reunion was perfect.

In the midst of that deep, true happiness, however,
memory had its place — memory which made Clement's face
at times very grave and sad. It is ever thus. Even in our
brightest hours there must be a touch of sadness — since all
who live n:ust leave behind a memory-haunted past, fraught
with much that is perplexing and full of pain, if only to
remind us that we have no continuing city here.

It is ten years since Evelyn became William Ayre's wife
— ten happy years — which have revealed to her what life
can hold for those who are one in heart and purpose, and
who walk together in love.

The Squire's health is not now such as causes any
anxiety. He has a fair share of strength and energy —
enough to make life and activity pleasant, more than
enough to fill his own and other hearts with fervent
gratitude.

There is no child in Studleigh, and it is Clement's son,
a boy who has all his father's strength of limb and will,
who is regarded as the future Squire. But while the boy
is a favourite with all, it is still the prayer of many, many
hearts that it may be long before he enters on his inherit-
ance, because Studleigh is blessed unspeakably by the wise,
beneficent, and loving rule of William Ayre and Evelyn,
his wife.

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