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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 7 |6 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 8 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." I 4 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." 10 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 I t h: In Confidence. II 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, 12 The Ayres of Studleigh, ri ' 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. 1 /// Confidence. 13 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 14 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. 15 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. I I 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. 17 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. ii Ill i8 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. 19 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. / I lit 20 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 ? " HI The Portmayne Creed. %X " 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 I 22 The Ayres of Stndhigh. w 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. 23 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 1 M 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 i\ 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 m !!|il 26 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, 27 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. \\ !i Jyj 28 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. 29 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 i^ 30 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^. 31 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 I 32 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. 35 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." M I 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. 35 "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. » if ■■! 36 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 I II! t)tjference of Opinion. %1 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 m 1' > u j I > i ! J i ! 38 The Ay res of Studleigh. I' • t i i ii 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. 39 up. that He 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 m rtiij 1 ' 1 ill! II Iff w 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. 41 "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 ' i „ -'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' 43 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 f 44 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.'' 45 "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_ it .pt ill * I ! I i I I! 'I 46 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 Si .'■i but just the ould ,ady " Till Death us do part! 47 " 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, t \ \\ \ ! \\ i ^! 1* 48 The Ayrcs of Studleigh. Mi 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 to cai or to ye " 7/7/ Dea//i us do part!' 49 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 P ill III ! iilli I in. if Jil I' 'W 50 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 ^s of the )ntain- mayne list of ive in r. de no >«*■ *S^-.r .r^^a^^^g^SS WTTf^^^ CHAPTER VI. ! it' Ui . ( iff ) It I :t 1 i II 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 n I i ^ 52 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 'in Dark Forebodings. S3 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 :Pl •yl \\V:\ ir • ■ I ■ ■ ; liiti !fl 1 111! ! -'ill ||:|;: ,1 ;:- 54 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. 55 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 l\-.v \ :, r Hi 1 i ■ ! , ^6 The Ay res of Studletgh. I ! ' i I II m' i ''III !i 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 mm( He quit( <( M Dark Po,ehodingS. 5; 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." (( C( And you ? No, I shall itay here with you, Geoffrey. ^ m ' '11 ^If . K I ' ' ' ' ' iif t \ 1 1 ■i fi Iff- 1 ''I ■m, ji i 1 I i : !l m W I .ili 111 ; hi I i 58 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. 59 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." ■i I I .1 ! ij. m y ,!'M'' i '■ I il .iJiii lfi!N!l iiMi ! ; 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, 6i " 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 }\ li 1 1 I < • \\ 62 The Ayres of StudUigh. 1 i 1 ! i ; I i i! 1 1 ! t ■ :' V li ' f 1 ' ii: i" I , 11^ !, If! 1 m 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. 63 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 : IN 1 ■ i> 1! :t. n 111!. ; I ! i 11 I 64 The Ayres of Siiidleigh. \ % II J I iililli i .,ll„j ; III I i i! ; '''II f ii '!l| I liilll! !llH !i|