“Yes, it is.”
“You insisted on my following the usual plan of college first, and travel afterwards.”
“That was before the days of Reform. The boys are my grandsons. I think I ought to decide on a question of this kind. What do you say, my dear?” and he turned his kindly face, with its crown of snowy hair, to Kate.
“It is to be as you say, Father,” she answered. “Is there any Indian news?”
“Alas! Alas!” he answered, becoming suddenly very sorrowful, “there is calamitous news,–the fort in which Colonel North was shut up, has fallen; and Cecil and Annabel are dead.”
“Oh, not massacred! Do not tell us that!” cried Kate, covering her ears with her hands.
“Not quite as bad. A Sepoy who was Cecil’s orderly, and much attached to him, has been permitted to bring us the terrible news, with some valuable gems and papers which Annabel confided to him. He told me that Cecil held out wonderfully; but it was impossible to send him help. Their food and ammunition were gone; and the troops, who were mainly Sepoys, were ready to open the gates to the first band of rebels that approached. One morning, just at daybreak, Cecil knew the hour had come. Annabel was asleep; but he awakened her. She had been expecting the call for many days; and, when Cecil spoke, she knew it was death. But she rose smiling, and answered, ‘I am ready, Love.’ He held her close to his breast, and they comforted and strengthened one another until the tramp of the brutes entering the court was heard. Then Annabel closed her eyes, and Cecil sent a merciful bullet through the brave heart that had shared with him, for twenty-five years, every trial and danger. Her last words were, ‘Come quickly, Cecil,’ and he followed her in an instant. The man says he hid their bodies, and they were not mutilated. But the fort was blown up and burned; and, in this case, the fiery solution was the best.”
“And her children?” whispered Kate.
“The boys are at Rugby. The little girl died some weeks ago.”
The Duke was much affected. He had loved Annabel truly, and her tragic death powerfully moved him. “The Duchess,” he said, “had wept herself ill; and he had promised her to return quickly.” But as he went away, he turned to charge Piers and Kate not to disappoint his grandsons. “They are such good boys,” he added; “and it is not a great matter to let them go to Italy, if they want to–only send Stanhope with them.”