"And now for my letter!" exclaimed Denzil, as he hurried eagerly from the excited throng about the cantonment gate to his new quarters, a bungalow of somewhat humble construction, as its low roof was thatched, and its walls built of the unburnt brick peculiar to Cabul. Save his bed and table, a chair, some bullock trunks, and accoutrements, furniture or ornament it had none.
The letter lay on the table, and, as he entered, its black-edged envelope gave him a shock. Audley had not mentioned this circumstance, for he humanely knew that until the fatal conference was over, and Denzil could get it perused, his anxiety would be torture, as "the dim shadow of an unknown evil is worse than the presence of a calamity whose worst is told."
It proved to be from Sybil, and, curiously enough, had been brought from Bombay by Audley Trevelyan! In India, people when "up country" are thankful to get their home letters, even though six months old, and, in the joy of receiving one, the longing to learn all it contained—tidings of those he loved, and who were so far away—Denzil forgot the terrible double catastrophe he had so recently witnessed—the cruel butchery of two gallant gentlemen; he forgot even about Rose Trecarrel, and cast himself into his chair, to enjoy the full luxury of perusing it; but for a time an envious film spread over his eyes when he attempted to read—a film that was soon to turn to tears.
"Ah! England and Sybil," he murmured, "how far, far, I am away from you!"
The letter was dated some months back; and the first few words gave the young military exile a dreadful shock, for they told him of his mother's death:—
"Oh, Denzil, my brother, how my heart yearns for you now more than ever! You know how much she loved us, Denzil, and how much our lives were bound up in each other; thus I cannot convince myself that I am quite alone, that she has gone from this world for ever, and that we shall never see her more—never see that sweet smile which her beautiful dark eyes always wore for us. Our darling mamma! I send you a lock of her hair (you will see that grey had begun to mingle with it); and I send you also a wild violet that grew near the grave where I buried her."
Sybil's writing here became tremulous, almost illegible, and falling tears had evidently blotted the ink. The poor young subaltern seemed to forget his present surroundings; he felt himself a boy again, and, covering his bowed-down face with his hands, wept bitterly.
"Time will soften what we suffer, Denzil; but shall I ever be the same again? I never had any plan or future unconnected with poor mamma, after you left us, and our papa was lost. I fear she wore her life out with thinking of what would become of us—of me, perhaps, more especially—when she was, as she now is, dead and gone. There cannot be two beings more isolated than you and I are now, dear Denzil, and your letters are my only comfort. I am so thankful to find from them that you are a favourite with so many, that General Trecarrel is so kind; and that honest fellow, Bob Waller, too, I feel that I quite love him. How do you like the Misses Trecarrel? Rather giddy, are they not? Has Mr. Audley Trevelyan joined yet?"
Then, as if with the mention of Audley's name other thoughts that were unknown to Denzil occurred to her, Sybil added—
"My music and my sketching days are ended now, Denzil; as some one has it, 'I may put away all the bright colours out of my paint-box, for they have gone out of my life.' Vainly has our rubicund Rector, fresh from his pretty parsonage, his happy family circle, as yet unbroken and unclouded by sorrow, fresh, perhaps, from his sumptuous luncheon and glass of full-bodied old port, besought me to take comfort—that grieving for the dead was useless—and told me that there is One above 'who turneth the shadow of death into mourning,' for I can only weep as one who would not be comforted. The old man is very kind to me, however—bless him! though we have suffered much through that horrid Lamorna peerage story—much at the hands and tongues even of those to whom mamma was ever open-hearted, and all charity and benevolence; but you will remember what Lady Fanshawe says of our common Cornish folks in her time, that 'they are of a crafty and censorious nature, as most are so far from London.'