"And where is the regiment stationed now?" asked Mrs. Devereaux, in a low voice.
"In India."
"India?" she repeated, mechanically, as if that separation, which is but as a living death, had already begun.
"I wonder who the Audley Trevelyan figuring along with me in the Gazette, may be. It is a pure Cornish name."
His mother was weeping now, and Sybil, who had hitherto been silent, began to do so from sympathy; for already, so we have said, the pang of the coming parting was felt, and the maternal heart was wrung at the thought of a long and doubtful separation from her only son—her Denzil—whom she deemed beautiful as Apollo, and clever as the admirable Crichton; for the Overland Route had not been opened, there was no electric cable to India, and its nearest point was distant a six months' journey by sea round the Cape; and so, full of aching thoughts that her children could not share—thoughts that must be all her own till her husband returned—poor Mrs. Devereaux could only fold her son to her breast and weep, till the young man's military and boyish enthusiasm became dulled, and his naturally warm and affectionate heart grew full with a perplexity that was akin to remorse, for seeking to leave her side and push his way in the world as a soldier. Yet that was the only career his father had ever indicated to him.
"A letter from papa—our dear papa!" exclaimed Sybil, glad to cause some diversion from the gathering gloom, as she caught the missive from the hand of the village postman, who appeared outside the open window.
"I wonder if he has heard of my appointment," surmised Denzil, his thoughts reverting to their old channel.
"It is sealed and edged with black!" exclaimed Sybil; "and—how singular—it bears the Penzance postmark!"
"How is this, mamma—I thought papa was in London?" asked Denzil.
Mrs. Devereaux trembled violently, as she tore open the letter, and muttering an excuse hastily left the room with it.