Chapter I · THE DESPATCH BOX.

"The Colonel has written to the effect, that the regiment has received 'letters of readiness' for foreign service, and that the route for the East may come at any moment."

"My dear boy, Cyril, and you will be leaving us."

"For old Gib or Malta in the first place, and the Crimea after," continued Cyril, glancing again at the letter he had just opened; "but the Colonel adds, that until I am telegraphed for, my leave of absence may remain intact—it is a little anomalous; but he is a thorough good fellow, the Colonel!"

"And what of Horace?"

"There is no word of Horace, dear mother; but he will probably be detailed for the depôt."

"My darling Cyril!" exclaimed the anxious mother, as her eyes filled with tears, and her upper lip quivered.

The "darling" referred to was a handsome young fellow of five feet ten or so, with a thick curly brown head of hair, shorn short to the regimental pattern, and most unexceptionable whiskers; one who rather considered himself as the model officer of the Royal Fusileers, in which distinguished corps he—Cyril Wedderburn, then on leave of absence—held the rank of Captain; and now having laid the Colonel's letter beside his plate—for the family were at breakfast—he forthwith, and with appetite unimpaired by the prospect of a speedy and too surely perilous change of scene, attacked the drumstick of a devilled turkey.

Gervase Asloane, the family butler—a portly individual, in an ample white waistcoat and suit of black—had but a few minutes before placed the Russia leather despatch box, with its brass plate, bearing the family arms, &c., beside Sir John Wedderburn, who had unlocked it, and distributed the contents among the party at table, which consisted only of Lady Wedderburn, Miss Flora M'Caw, her companion, a Highland maiden of doubtful age but undoubted pedigree; her two sons, Cyril and Robert; her nephew. Horace Ramornie, son of a deceased sister, and who was junior lieutenant in Cyril's regiment; and a visitor, Chesters of Chesterhaugh, a gentleman of whom the reader may hear, perhaps, too much in future.

There were no missives for Miss M'Caw; there never were any, so she had long since ceased even to affect that one might come.

"One letter for Horace," said Cyril, while decapitating an egg. "Well, old fellow, what says your despatch—'to amount of account rendered,' eh?"

"It is only some mess-room gossip from Probyn of ours."

"A kind fellow is Probyn."

"No word of the war as yet, Cyril, so our leaves are safe," added Horace Ramornie.

"And our lives too, for a time—eh, mamma of mine! A pink cocked hat for Bob, or invitation, or a love letter, of course? But what is up with you, Chesters? You look disturbed, as they say on the stage."

"Perhaps I do," whispered Chesters. "I have again backed the wrong horse, and lost a pot of money, at the last Liverpool Spring Meeting. The rain fell in torrents."

"And the course was soft?"

"Soft as butter," replied Chesters, filling his mouth with toast to check a rising malediction.

"How can you talk so gaily and so lightly, Cyril?" urged his mother, reproachfully, with her fine eyes more full of tears than ever.

"Why, mother dearest, any way, both Horace and I must have had to leave you soon; the spring drills, the bore of coaching up for the half-yearly inspection, will soon begin, and then quit we should, inevitably."

"In May?"

"Yes."

"And this is March: it is hard—very hard! I had formed such pleasant plans for you."

"Why don't you forward them to the Horse Guards—they might soften the hearts of the Commander-in-Chief and Adjutant-General?" said Cyril, laughing. "Another cup of coffee, Miss M'Caw, at your leisure," he added to that demure personage, who daily officiated at the magnificent silver urn and Wedgwood breakfast equipage.

"My dear Sir John," exclaimed Lady Wedderburn, suddenly, as her eyes now fell on her husband, who had remained perfectly silent, "what is the matter? You look quite pale, and—and—the letter you have read is wafered with black!"

"And edged with black, too," added Robert Wedderburn, a thoughtless, but rather pretty looking lad, about eighteen, with curly yellow hair and dark grey eyes. "What's up, papa—'whose mare is dead?'"

But the Baronet did not answer immediately; he permitted the hand retainiug the letter to drop upon his knee, and his chin sank upon his breast as his head drooped forward, and he seemed to become lost in thought. Then all eyes, including those of old Gervase, the butler, were turned inquiringly towards him.

"Sir John Wedderburn, Bart, of Nova Scotia, and Willowdean, in the Merse—creation, 1628," as the heralds have it, was a remarkably good-looking man, and fully six feet in height, though he did stoop a little now, being past his sixtieth year. His features were cleanly cut, and very noble in contour, and benign in expression, his eyes a clear grey, and his white hair started in spouts from his forehead to fall back wavily like a lion's mane. His hands, though brown—for he never wore gloves—the whip, the gun, the rod, or the weeder, seldom being out of them—were well shaped and aristocratic in form, while his costume—a suit of coarse grey tweed and long brown leather leggings, as he sat at table, with a silver whistle at his button-hole, and a dogwhip in his pocket, only required his old wide-awake hat, with its row of flies and fish-hooks, to complete it; but the aforesaid hat hung in the hall without.

"My letter contains most mournful and sudden news, Katharine," said he, as a tear started to each of his eyes—an emotion all the more painful, as he was a man quite unused to the melting mood.

"You will perhaps permit me, dear Wedderburn," said she; on which Cyril took the letter from his father's passive fingers and handed it to his mother, who lifted her gold eye-glass, and, after a pause, read as follows; but not without great difficulty, as the handwriting was tremulous, and in some places degenerated to an almost illegible scrawl:—

"The Choultry, Madras.

"MY DEAR BROTHER JOHN,—My physician and old friend, of the Palmacottah Light Infantry, worthy Doctor Chutnay, who has just left me (and who will forward this to you), has told me that my hours are numbered now. Before this heavy fever fell upon me, I had fondly hoped to be with you once again, to inhale the pure, cool breeze that sweeps over the purple Lammermuir and all down bonnie Lauderdale; but God has willed it otherwise. I cannot live more than two or three days at the utmost, and have only strength to write, that I bequeath to you my most valuable possession on earth—my only child, Gwendoleyne—whom I know that you and dearest Katharine will love and cherish, even as your own boys, for the sake of her mother, who, to the hour of her death, loved you all so well.

"The impulsive blood of her mother's old Welsh race is in my girl's veins, and she is a warm and enthusiastic creature; so I pray you, as one so soon to face his God as I, alone can pray, that you will be her guide and protector. She will be rich; see that she marries worthily; guide and watch over her lonely steps, dear John, and love—love to——but my head swims. I cannot pen another line. Be a father to my little Gwenny, and believe me your affectionate brother, "WILLIAM WEDDERBURN."

While all listened to this in respectful silence, and the letter was passed between the brothers for re-perusal, Sir John had thrust aside his breakfast, and with his chin resting on one hand, sat gazing into the far vista of the sunny lawn, lost in sad thoughts; but Lady Wedderburn very deliberately examined the letter in which it was enclosed, and a document which came with it.

The letter was from the physician, Doctor Chutnay, and was dated from the cantonments of the 3rd Madras N.I. It stated that "the deceased expired on the second day after the letter was written, and that his daughter, Miss Gwendoleyne Wedderburn, would leave Madras for Europe by the next P. and O. liner that came into the Roads, and that herewith he begged to enclose a copy of her poor father's will."

William Wedderburn, the younger brother of Sir John—younger by six or seven years at least—had spent half his life in the Indian Civil Service, and had realized a handsome fortune by his lucky speculations in the staple produce of India, such as cotton, indigo, rice, and coffee; and by his will it would appear that, save a few thousands bequeathed to Sir John, he left the bulk of his property, more than three hundred thousand pounds, to his orphan daughter, including a "garden-house" like an Oriental palace on the Choultry Plain, shares in the Agra Bank, Indian Stock, and—Heaven only knew all what more!

The contents of this letter affected all at the table in various degrees.

Lady Wedderburn had scarcely—and her sons had never—seen, though they had heard so much of this rich Indian uncle, who yearly sent home such magnificent and graceful (because suitable) presents to the family. He had been a kind of myth to all, save Sir John; so personally his death stirred no deep or tender chord in their hearts.

Her first idea was that the thousands now so suddenly bequeathed would be a seasonable aid in pushing on Robert at college and bringing him out for the bar; also in purchasing a majority for Cyril in some regiment that was not going to the East; and then, if the orphan cousin was handsome, who could say what might happen? the Madras heiress would make an excellent wife for one of them.

Her next thoughts ran on the fashion and expense of mourning, for the whole household, even to the lodge gatekeepers, would require to be put in black. Was a black hammer-cloth necessary for the carriage? Gaiety, they could have none of it for a time—a confounded bore, Robert thought, "when a fellow had so many invitations on hand and in prospect." Then as the little heiress would be here anon; which rooms was she to have? The best of course, after her own. All these ideas swept in quick succession through her busy brain.

Chesters of Chesterhaugh thought of the heiress's thousands and his own ugly betting-book. He played with his knife and fork; wondered what she was like, and ventured to inquire her age.

"She will be eighteen in May. Poor girl! and quite an orphan; but so rich, Captain Chesters!"

The poor companion sighed, for she too had been long friendless; but no lacs of rupees ever fell to the great Celtic line of the M'Caw.

Horace Ramornie remembered that eight years before this he too had come an orphan to Willowdean, but "so poor;" and now he had no thought or interest in the matter, save surprise to see tears falling silently over the bronzed cheek of bluff and jolly Sir John Wedderburn. But the memory of the latter was wandering away into the past, and he could recall the lithe, supple, and handsome figure of that dead brother, a blue-eyed and golden-haired lad, as he went forth to seek his fortune in the sunny East, with mingled hope and sorrow in his heart, and their mother's tears and kisses lingering on his cheek; and he could recall many a happy, happy hour they had spent together under yonder old trees, under the roof of Willowdean—days of nutting and bird-nesting in the summer woods, of trouting in the Leader and Whitadder; or wandering, truant-like, by many a harvest-field and lone burn-brae; of tricks they had played upon their tutor; of depredations committed in the vineries and hot-houses; and their awful fear of discovery, which was more than half the charm of the whole adventure; of all their rides and rambles, their boyish hopes and mutual aspirations; and now—now he was dead and buried, far, far away in an Indian grave, an old, shattered, fever-stricken man.

It seemed so difficult to think when he looked across the room to where hung a portrait of the little Willie of the vanished years, a laughing and golden-haired boy; and Sir John muttered, with something between a sigh and a sob in his throat—

"Yes, Willie, I shall be a kind father to your orphan girl, whatever betide!"

"Gwendoleyne is a pretty name," said Cyril, approvingly.

"I am so glad you like it," observed his mother, following her own ambitious thoughts.

"Rather romantic though. There is one I like that is more simple."

"Her mother was a Welsh lady—one of the Ap-Rhys of Llanchillwydd," added Lady Wedderburn, in an explanatory tone. "But she died, poor thing, at Madras, when Gwenny was about three years old, and I wonder that uncle William did not send her home to Europe long ago; but then she was his only child, and he would have missed her so much!"

As the conversation was now taking a domestic turn, and Sir John Wedderburn was evidently disturbed by the tidings—for, instead of his brother's death, his final return had been anticipated,—Chesters, who hated the dark or gloomy side of anything, thought he had better go, as he had only ridden over to see a horse of Cyril's; yet he lingered for a time, smoking a cigar with him and Robert on the terrace before the mansion, while Lady Wedderburn was engaged in family council with her husband.